Gayle Wilson - Her Dearest Sin

It was the kind of repartee they had engaged in a thousand times through the long years of their friendship—bragging about their exploits with the fairer sex or their ability to drink or to fight, each claiming superiority. This time, however, there was a small silence after the viscount’s unfortunate choice of words. And then the situation became even more awkward when Wetherly attempted to apologize for them.

“You know that ain’t the truth, Sin,” Harry said, his voice subdued. “No woman has ever preferred me to you. Not even after…”

The hesitation provided an opportunity for Sinclair to break into that nearly stuttering explanation, one which he gratefully took. “Not even after they’ve gotten a good look at my face?” he asked with a laugh, putting a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“I didn’t mean that,” Harry said stiffly.

“Just because the lot of you pretend this doesn’t exist,” Sinclair said, touching the still-reddened scar that traversed his cheek, “doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Plain as the nose on Wellington’s face,” he said.

Sinclair never referred to the scar except mockingly, as he had done tonight and, then only in response to another’s comment about it. Most people assumed it to be the result of an injury received in battle. The few friends who knew the truth of the incident said nothing to disabuse others of that notion.

“You’re still the most dashing officer on the staff,” Harry avowed gallantly.

“And you, sir, are its greatest liar. I wonder Wellington puts up with you.”

“Keeps me around for my entertainment value.”

“And me for the unquestioned beauty of my countenance,” Sebastian said, grinning at him again.

“He’d be lost without us,” the viscount declared, sounding relieved that his faux pas had been so gracefully handled. “Should never have won the war if we hadn’t been here.”

“Undoubtedly,” Sebastian said, leaning back in the comfortable leather seat and closing his eyes. “Wake me when we arrive at the palace. It will be the one with all the torches.”

“Arrogant English bastard,” Julián Delgado said as he watched his king greet the special emissary from the Court of St. James’s, “flaunting his victories and his drummed-up titles.”

“Jealous, Julián?” Pilar asked.

“Of Wellesley? Hardly. I simply hate to see him lauded like some conquering hero.”

“He shall make his government’s request and be gone within the week. Why let his presence upset you? After all, everyone knows where the real power in Spain resides.”

He turned to look at her then, perhaps in an attempt to judge if the last had been mockery. It had been, of course, but she had become extremely skilled during the past year in hiding her true feelings from her guardian. She smiled at him before she turned back to watch the English duke present the members of his small party to the king.

“I’m not sure Fernando is as convinced of that as you,” Julián said, his gaze returning to the dais as well.

“I’m sure you’ll take the necessary steps to see to it that he soon will be.”

“As soon as possible,” he agreed, not bothering to deny what she had just suggested. “The quicker he recognizes his proper place in the scheme of things, the better it will be for all of us.”

“There are those who might think that smacks of treason. I should be careful where I voice that intent, if I were you.”

She didn’t look at him this time, knowing she was treading on very dangerous ground. Her guardian had no patience with any dissension with his opinions. Certainly not from her.

“And are you one of those, my dear?”

“On the contrary,” she said. “As always, I am your most ardent admirer.”

There was a prolonged silence after her lie. Through it Pilar’s eyes remained focused on the ceremony taking place, as if she were unaware of the perilous undercurrents of their conversation.

“Your tongue will get you into trouble if you don’t learn to control it,” Julián warned, his tone softer than that in which they had been conversing. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe His Majesty requires my attendance.”

He bowed to her formally before he turned, strolling to the front of the room. Her gibe had struck home, and Pilar’s lips curved into a slight smile of satisfaction as she watched him walk away.

The rather grandiose style of his evening attire was in marked contrast to the almost severe tailoring favored by the English party. Surrounded by the sea of blazing colors that represented the court dress of the Spanish nobility, the knot of black jackets, no longer clustered around the king, again drew her eye.

The somber hue of their clothing was not the only discernible difference in the appearance of Wellington and his officers. The fine cloth of their coats stretched across shoulders broadened by years of campaigning. Knee breeches and silk stockings revealed the long, muscled thighs and shapely calves of men who had spent countless hours in the saddle.

Pilar pulled her gaze away, unwillingly reminded of another English soldier. And of the price he had paid for her foolish attempt to escape her fate. A bitter lesson, especially for someone as headstrong as she had always been.

It was one she had not forgotten, however. Nor would she, she had vowed. Never again would she embroil someone else in her troubles. It was too costly.

Grateful that Julián had been called away, providing her a few moments of freedom from the facade she maintained in his company, she began to thread her way through the close-packed throng. The doors that led to the nearby palace gardens had been left enticingly open in a fruitless attempt to permit the cooler outside air to circulate through the crowded ballroom. Her progress toward them was interrupted a few times to return greetings from those who had known her father or who were friends of her guardian.

It had been a very long time since she had been required to attend such a gathering. She knew that Julián would never have brought her tonight if he had not believed her absence might cause comment.

When she eventually reached the balcony, she was surprised to find it deserted, perhaps because the official presentations had ended such a brief time before and the dancing was to begin shortly. Julián seldom danced, so it would be some time before he would look for her.

The king’s gardens lay enticingly below, free of crowds and clamor. If only she dared…

She glanced back at the ballroom, her eyes easily locating Julián’s dark head. He was engaged in conversation with several others of the king’s advisors. Such discussions normally occupied several hours. Surely this one would last long enough for her to escape for a few minutes that unaccustomed tumult.

Unable to resist the temptation, she hurried down the steps that led to the grounds below. It was not until she had entered the sheltering darkness under the ornamental trees, beyond the reach of the flambeaux that lined the palace walls, that she slowed, lifting her face to the breeze.

The scent of almond blossoms was heavy on the night air. If she closed her eyes she could pretend she was back on her father’s estate, far from the sights and sounds and smells of the city.

Drifting out from the ballroom came the strains of the seguidilla. She smiled unconsciously, remembering the first time her dancing master had led her though its intricate patterns. Lifting the hem of her gown with her left hand, she began to parody the steps as they would be performed inside.

As she danced, she circled in and out between the slender trunks along the avenue of trees. Her outstretched fingers trailed over their bark as she moved from one to another, keeping time to the melody that floated out into the garden.