Page 9 of Somewhere I'll Find You
“Lord Savage, the Marquess of Savage.” Logan gave her a brief smile and left to mingle with some acquaintances.
Lord Savage, the Marquess of Savage. Julia was still and silent with confusion. Her brain was suddenly slow to work. She wondered if she had heard correctly. It seemed odd to hear the name and title fall from Logan Scott's lips, odd to know that after all her fearful and outraged imaginings, the object of her resentment was a living, breathing man. Her past had finally come crashing headlong into her present. If only she could find a way to disappear…but instead she could only stand there, trapped out in the open. She was afraid that if she did move, she wouldn't be able to keep from bolting like a hunted fox.
Somehow she hadn't expected her husband to be handsome, as splendidly dark and elegant as a foreign prince. He was a tall man with a quietly powerful presence. Beneath a black coat, an amber-and-gray-striped waistcoat, and charcoal trousers, the broad, sloping spread of his shoulders tapered to a slim waist and hips. His features were austere and perfect, his gaze devoid of emotion. He was a startling contrast to the men she usually associated with, men such as Logan and the other actors in the company, who earned their salaries with their expressive faces. This man seemed utterly inaccessible.
As if he sensed her presence, he glanced in her direction. A questioning frown touched his brow, and his head tilted slightly in concentration. Julia tried to look away, but he wouldn't let her, his gaze locked steadily on her face. Filled with sudden panic, she turned and began to walk away in controlled strides. However, it was too late. He cut across her path and reached her, forcing her to stop or risk bumping into him.
Julia's heart thumped painfully in her chest. She lifted her gaze and stared into the most extraordinary eyes she had ever seen, cool gray and ruthlessly intelligent, framed by black lashes so long that they had tangled at the outside corners.
“You look familiar to me.” Although his voice lacked the rich, winelike clarity of Logan Scott's voice, it held a pleasantly husky undertone.
“Do I?” Julia could barely force the words from her numb lips. “Perhaps you've seen me on stage.”
He continued to stare at her, while all she couldthink was You're my husband…my husband…
Damon was puzzled by the young woman who stood before him. The music and colorful profusion of the ball seemed to recede in the background as he studied her face. He knew they had never been introduced—God knew he would never forget a woman like her—but there was something disturbingly familiar about her. She was slim and cool in her pale blue gown, holding herself with a regal poise that would not admit any hint of uncertainty. Her face seemed more like an artist's creation than something belonging to a real woman, hauntingly lovely with cheekbones angled deeply over the soft curves of cheek and jaw. Most remarkable of all were her blue-green eyes…they could have belonged to a fallen angel, virginal, soft, and yet sadly familiar with the ways of the wicked world.
Perhaps you've seen me on stage, she had said.
“Ah,” he said softly. “You must be Mrs. Wentworth.” She was far younger than he had expected of the popular actress, whose image had been spread all over England in paintings, prints, and engravings. The public was wild over her, as were the critics, lauding her attractiveness and skill. She had undeniable talent, but more than that, it was her warmth that had endeared her to audiences, making her instantly familiar and appealing.
But that creature was a world apart from the wraithlike young woman who stood before him now. It seemed that her neck was almost too slender to support the weight of the heavy blond braids that were twisted and pinned at her nape. He wasn't aware of reaching for her hand, nor of her offering it, but suddenly her gloved fingers were in his. As he raised them to his lips, he became aware that she was trembling.
Questions raced through his mind. Was she frightened of him? Why had she been standing here alone? Unconsciously he made his voice softer than usual, as if he might frighten the wary creature before him. “May I be of service, madam? I'm—”
“Yes, I know. You're the Marquess of Savage.” All at once her face had changed, a social smile coming to her lips. She withdrew her hand. “My theater manager, Mr. Scott, desired me to make your acquaintance. He seems to believe I might be able to convert you into a patron of the Capital.”
Surprised by her directness, Damon didn't return her smile as he replied. “You're welcome to try, Mrs. Wentworth. But I never waste money on frivolous pursuits.”
“Frivolous? Don't you believe that people need to escape into the world of the theater every now and then? A play can make the audience experience something they've never imagined before. Sometimes they find that their feelings and opinions have changed afterward, and they regard their lives in a new way…that's hardly frivolous, is it?”
He shrugged casually. “I have no need of an escape.”
“Don't you?” She stared at him even more intently, if that was possible. “I don't believe that, my lord.”
“Why not?” No woman had ever dared to speak so boldly to him. First she had been trembling, and now she was challenging him. If she did want money from him on behalf of the Capital, this was a novel approach to getting it.
A flush crept over her neck and up to her cheeks, as if she were struggling to suppress some powerful emotion. “I've never met a person who is comfortable with his or her past. There is always something we would like to change, or forget.”
Damon was very still, his head inclined toward hers. She seemed tense and restless, like a bird poised for flight. He had to fight the urge to reach out and take hold of her, and keep her with him. Something vibrated in the air between them…some elusive awareness that tantalized him. “And you?” he murmured. “What is it you would like to forget?”
A long silence passed. “A husband,” she whispered, her lashes veiling her blue eyes.
Julia didn't know what had driven her to say such a thing. Horrified by her recklessness, she gave him a quick curtsy and slipped away into the crowd before he had a chance to react. “Wait—” she thought she heard him say, but she ignored him and fled the ballroom.
Damon stared after her, while recognition seared across his brain. He remembered the May evening in Warwickshire, the bewitching girl dancing in the torchlight. She had been an actress with a company of strolling players, and he had stolen a kiss from her. There was no doubt it was she, and that somehow his premonition of meeting her again had finally come true. “My God,” he said under his breath.
Stunned by the stroke of good fortune, Damon stared at the place where she had stood before him. Before he could gather his wits, he became aware of Lady Ashton's approach. Her hand drifted possessively across his sleeve. “Darling.” Her smooth purr caressed his ear. “Apparently you've made a new acquaintance. She hurried away before I could reach you. You must tell me what was said between you and Mrs. Wentworth! Oh, don't frown like that—you know I'm aware of everything you do. You have no secrets from me, darling.”
“I may have one or two,” he muttered.
Pauline's dark eyes were questioning, her red lips arranged in a pout. “Did she make a play for you?”
“She asked if I would become a sponsor for the Capital this season.”
“And naturally you refused.”
“Why do you assume that?”
