The reluctant cavalier by Karen Harbaugh Page B

the guests below, and the costumes were a bright pastiche of history and fantasy—at once colorful and confusing. Parsifal suppressed a groan. So much for his wish to dance with Miss Smith.
    He almost retreated so as to be away from the noise, the heat, and the confusion, but a faint, stubborn hope that he might find Miss Smith and dance with her brought him farther into the room. The ball began early, and he knew it would end late. If he were persistent, surely he would happen upon her. He'd have more chance at that than if he left.
    He turned to scan the room, and to his alarm saw Lady Bowerland looking straight at him. But that lady merely stared at him for a moment, gave a puzzled shake of her head and turned away to stare at another man dressed as a Cavalier. Parsifal let out the breath he'd been holding. She had not recognized him. No doubt the darkness of the night in which he had come to the Bowerlands' rescue had been sufficient to obscure his features totally. Thank God! He'd hate another embarrassing display of gratitude from her. He turned and asked a petite, dark-haired sylph for the next dance, but knew when she accepted that it was not Miss Annabella Smith.
    Neither was the next lady, or the next. He danced with blond-haired ladies, and with red-haired ones, for he could not be sure that Miss Smith was not wearing a wig. For one moment his heart beat a little faster when he encountered a fancifully dressed shepherdess who seemed similar to Miss Smith about the chin and mouth. But a glance at her hair showed the dark brown to be streaked with grey, and Parsifal knew it was not she.
    Then he turned and took the next lady's hand in the line as the set moved down the room in a sprightly country dance. Behind her mask, her eyes widened, and she gave a little gasp. Ah! Parsifal smiled in relief. He had not needed to search so diligently, after all. The lady recognized him. Therefore...
    "Good evening, Miss Smith."
    "How . . . how did you know?" She was dressed demurely, in the guise of a Puritan girl, her hair gathered underneath its cap and hat so that only a tiny curl showed upon her forehead. Except for part of her forehead and her lips and chin, a black mask obscured all of her face. He would have not guessed it was she, except for her gasp of recognition.
    "I knew—" he began to reply. The dance parted them, but he could see her watching him. He turned and bowed to a medieval princess who was next in the line, as the dance required, and took her hand as they stepped in unison to the music. Frustration pulled at him. There was no guarantee that he'd end the dance beside Miss Smith, and in this crowd it was not likely he'd find her again.
    A sudden, sizzling tension came over his body, a heat came over his mind. His breath left him in a soft, reckless laugh. Quickly, he counted the dancers in the line. As things stood now, he would be across the room from Annabella when the dance ended, and it would end soon. It was not what he wanted, not at all.
    A gasp of bewilderment came from his partner as Parsifal swung her into his place on the gentlemen's line and stepped into hers. He grinned and made a mock curtsey to the partner she was to have, a somewhat paunchy Apollo. The Apollo's jaw dropped and his face grew red, but before the man could protest, Parsifal had already taken him by the hand and twirled him into the ladies' line. A small scream and then laughter broke behind Parsifal as he progressed down the set, now only a few dancers away from Annabella.
    "What the devil—!"
    "Oh, heavens—!"
    A shriek, a curse, and more laughter burst behind Parsifal. Another step and skip, a bow, and another mock curtsey. A violin in the orchestra wailed a sour note, the dance came to a crashing halt—and there was Annabella in front of him once more. He seized her hand.
    "Come with me," he said, pulling her away from the dance floor.
    And then the odd heat that had come over his mind began to fade, and a horrified