He might well save himself distress, Ginny thought with growing boredom, for she had no intention of being drawn any further into a discussion of Steve Morgan, nor did she desire to remain a witness to Lorna Prendergast’s flirtation with Pierre. There were much more important things to think about than this rather spoiled young woman.
“Excuse me,” she murmured, “I see my aunt is looking for me.”
Before Pierre could protest, Ginny had moved away from them and crossed the ballroom, weaving her way through full skirts of satin and silk, the glitter of jewels and the drone of conversation a familiar background. Snatches of gossip fluttered in the air on wings of suppressed excitement.
“…but my dear, you must know that he was seen in an intimate tête-à-tête with an opera singer…”
“Such a handsome man, but dangerously wicked, don’t you agree, my dear Lady Epson?”
A delicate shudder accompanied the dowager’s gossip, and she leaned forward to say in a loud whisper, “An Italian opera singer—Francesca di Paoli, I believe. She was so enraged by his defection to his wife that she threw an absolute tantrum and promptly began seeing that German duke. I heard that she was to attend this ball tonight, and if she does, what a delicious scene that would be!”
Laughter followed their conjecture, and they both turned to watch as Ginny moved past them on her way to the far end of the ballroom where Tante Celine stood with some of her friends.
Damn Steve, he would abandon her to the gossip of old cats, she fumed as she made polite replies to her aunt’s queries and sipped champagne punch more freely than she should. Why did he always do this?
And the gossip about Francesca di Paoli, his former mistress and a thorn in her side…. Surely she would not be here this evening! Oh, that would be just too much to bear if the haughty Italian diva made an appearance!
“Ginette,” Tante Celine leaned forward to say with a slight frown, “are you unwell?”
Ginny flashed a bright smile to hide her turmoil. “No, no, of course not. Just a bit weary. The twins were quite insistent that I join them on their picnic today, and it began to rain and we had to run back to the pony trap. I hope Laura does not take a chill.”
“I’m certain she will be just fine. She is stronger than she appears, and Franco is such a sturdy child.”
Diverted by the thoughts of her children, Ginny nodded in agreement, her smile growing pensive.
This past month getting to know the twins had been the best days of her life, but though Laura readily accepted her, Franco was more guarded. He was so like Steve, and she thought ruefully that she now knew what Don Francisco had meant when he had said his grandson was a hellion as a child. He must have been, for she saw the same reckless streak in Franco.
Just yesterday he had climbed to the top of one of the huge old trees in the back garden, defying his nurse’s pleas to come down until she came to Ginny in hysterics. It had been terrifying to see the small boy so high, clinging to a thick limb and pretending he was not afraid, stubbornly refusing to come down until Ginny had shrugged carelessly and said that he must be very brave to be so high, but his father would be home soon and he must come down so he could tell him how far he had climbed.
Then she had held her breath as Franco made his way down the tree, limb by limb, until he was on the ground again and the footmen were allowed to put away the ladders that Madame Dupree had summoned. Yes, he was very like Steve, she thought with a mixture of resignation and dismay, just as daring, just as reckless.
As if her thoughts had summoned him, she saw Steve enter the ballroom and pause just inside an arched doorway. His lean build and dark features were achingly familiar, and still had the power to quicken her heartbeat. It was all only a thin veneer, the urbanity he donned as casually as a silk jacket to hide his true nature. And it was that trait women seemed to recognize in him, the air of repressed danger that made Steve Morgan an exciting challenge.
Too often, the eager women who tried to tame him found to their sorrow that he could not be domesticated like some feral cat. But perhaps that was what drew them.
Ginny waited, frowning slightly as she heard the buzz of excited voices escalate and her aunt’s sudden, muffled exclamation.
“What is it, Tante?”
Celine seemed flustered, her eyes anxious, her smile too quick. “Do not react hastily, Ginette!”
“But why should I, Tante?”
Then she saw the reason, and her fingers tightened into a vise around the fragile stem of her wineglass. As the crowd shifted, she saw Francesca di Paoli enter to stand at Steve’s side, a hand on his arm as she leaned close to whisper into his ear.
Diamonds glittered in the Italian singer’s hair and on her earlobes and around her neck, reflecting lamplight in sparkling-hued rainbows. She was slim and very beautiful, with the pale skin of a madonna and classically oval features set off by large, flashing dark eyes and thick masses of glossy, dark-brown hair coiled at the back of her small head. She radiated arrogance and confidence in her appeal to men—especially the man on her arm.
Fury clogged Ginny’s throat and burned her eyes, but she forced herself to remain outwardly calm as she lifted her wineglass and sipped the smoky, brisk wine that did nothing to cool her rising temper.
Garbed in a snowy brocade fitted to her voluptuous curves, di Paoli ignored everyone but Steve, her attention trained on his handsome face. Paco Davis, Steve’s old friend and longtime partner, had told Ginny about her, admitting without words the intimacy of
