Her Dearest Sin

Her involuntary gasp broke the stillness. She stumbled backward, putting a protective distance between herself and whoever was leaning against the tree.

“I do beg your pardon,” a deep voice said in English.

Her eyes found the small, glowing tip of the cigar he held. She wondered that she hadn’t been aware of its pungent smell. Of course, the heady fragrance of the flowering trees and her own childish masquerade had been convenient distractions.

“Who are you?” Pilar asked, taking another step back.

Had the man not addressed her in English, she might have been more frightened, convinced she had encountered some trespasser on the palace grounds. Given her previous interest in the Duke of Wellington’s party, however, she found herself more intrigued than apprehensive.

“Merely the victim of an unfortunate vice,” he said, his voice tinged with amused self-deprecation.

Her eyes followed the unhurried rise of the end of the cigarillo as he brought it to his lips. The tip flared briefly in the darkness as he inhaled, and then it was lowered again. This time the smoke wafted toward her, its scent as faint as the music.

Her father had smoked these same small, tightly rolled cigars, and their fragrance had lingered in his clothing. When she was a little girl, and her papa had been away too long, she would sneak into his chamber and open the door of the enormous wardrobe to breathe in the wonderful variety of smells she would always associate with him. These cigars. The oiled leather of his boots. Sandalwood and cedar. Horses. The aromas of home.

“Shall I put it out?” the Englishman asked.

She swallowed against the force of those crowding memories and shook her head before she realized he would no more be able to see that gesture than she could see him. All she could discern was his shape, black against the lesser darkness of the night, his chest centered by the pale gleam of his cravat. And, of course, the small glowing tip of the cigarillo.

“No,” she said, the word little more than a whisper.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

Hearing the unfamiliar—and unmistakable—concern in his voice, her eyes stung with tears. She blinked, denying them.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here,” she confessed.

“Escaping?”

The word reverberated in her consciousness. Another memory.

“For the moment,” she said.

“Then we can be conspirators together.”

There was a heartbeat of silence.

“You’re with the English envoy.”

“The Duke of Wellington. Have you met him?”

“Not yet. He seems…” She hesitated, searching for a word that would not give offense.

“Ordinary,” the deep voice supplied, touched again with amusement.

Which made it even more attractive, Pilar decided. Confronted with his ease of manner, she was beginning to relax. Despite the fact that she shouldn’t be here, despite the fact that he was a stranger in a dark garden, she felt no sense of foreboding in staying to talk to him.

Even if someone came looking for her, it would be easy enough to fade into the shadows. No one would ever know she had been here. With the constraints under which she was now forced to live her life, this small, harmless adventure had suddenly become unbelievably precious.

Of course, whatever interpretation she chose to put on this clandestine encounter, she had no doubt what Julián’s reaction to it would be. Then she reminded herself again, almost fiercely, that he need never know. What were a few moments in a garden compared to a lifetime—

“It’s all right,” the Englishman went on. “Most people think him to be far less…extraordinary, somehow, than they had expected.”

Wellington, she realized. He had asked her what she thought of the duke.

“I don’t believe I have yet had time to form an impression,” she said.

“I see,” he said, the amusement in his voice still evident. “I should imagine that a lady like you has heard little about his military exploits.”

“Only that they were successful,” she lied.

And was rewarded by his laughter. Like his voice, it was rich and pleasing, clearly masculine, and yet, unlike her guardian’s, free of mockery.

“Somewhat,” he agreed after a moment.

“Did you fight under his command?”

“I was a member of his staff.”

“Then I am sure you must have the greatest admiration for him.”

“Of course,” he agreed readily, that tantalizing hint of amusement lurking.

“And as a member of his staff, what were your duties?”

“Primarily to dance attendance.”

“On the duke?”

“On whomever or whatever needed attending to. The role of staff is to make things run as smoothly as possible. The variety of tasks we undertake to accomplish that would probably amaze you.”

“I think I should like to be amazed,” she said promptly, realizing how much she was enjoying this.

There was no need to guard her tongue or to watch her back. She was simply a woman engaging in light flirtation with a gentleman who seemed skilled in the art.

“Carrying dispatches on the battlefield. Scouting. Procuring provisions when need be. Dancing.”

“Dancing?” she repeated, allowing her own amusement at what seemed to be a ridiculous non sequitur.

“Oh, quite the most important requirement in a staff officer, I assure you.”

Like his laugh, like the heady sense of freedom the darkness provided, his teasing was exciting.

“The ability to dance?” she mocked.

“And to be enormously charming while doing so.”

“I’m sure you excel at all of them,” she said.