The Dance Before Christmas

CHAPTER TWO

THE MOMENT THEY stepped into the ballroom festooned with swags of evergreens, ivy and holly accented with red ribbons and model ships, maps and globes, Mr. Grant—Wesley—swept her onto the dance floor. It was an excellent way to show the world how fascinating they found each other without being too obvious about it. The way he gazed into her eyes and led her flawlessly around the floor, it was almost hard for her to believe they were not smitten with one another.

It was absurd of course, as they had only just met and he was an actor. He was simply pretending and so was she. Besides, the very idea that she could develop feelings for an actor was ridiculous. She was not destined to be the wife of an actor, nor was she as enamored of the theater as some of her friends were. She was not the sort of female to swoon over a handsome man spouting well-written verse on a stage. Father would never approve, and as much as they differed on any number of topics, in this she would have to agree with him.

But good Lord, Wesley Grant was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Devilishly handsome and just a touch disheveled. As if he had been slightly mussed getting out of a carriage and was not nearly so vain as to worry about it.

“Are you staring at me, Anabel?”

“I am gazing adoringly at you.”

His gaze slipped from her eyes to her lips and back. “You’re making an excellent job of it.”

Was it her imagination or was his voice a shade deeper than before? More intense perhaps? Silly idea, of course.

“You dance quite well, Mr. Grant.”

“I believe that’s Mr. Everheart to you, or rather Wesley.” He grinned down at her. “You sound surprised.”

“Not at all. I would expect you to be well trained in all manner of stagecraft.”

“You should see me in a sword fight.” He led her effortlessly through a complicated turn.

With his broad shoulders and his firm hand clasping hers, she had no doubt Wesley Grant did a great many things well.

“I would think that would be far more dangerous than dancing.”

“Not if you know what you’re doing.” His blue eyes brimmed with amusement. “But dancing can be just as dangerous.”

“Oh?” She gazed up at him. Aunt Lillian had certainly not exaggerated the man’s appearance. His dark hair, deep blue eyes and strong jaw made him look very much as if he had stepped straight from one of her romantic novels. “Do tell, Mr. Everheart—Wesley, how can dancing be dangerous?”

He laughed. “I suspect you already know the answer to that.”

“Pretend I don’t.”

“Do you really want an answer or are you just making idle conversation?”

“Both.” Although she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to hear his answer. A voice in the back of her head warned that the deception she was engaging in might be far more complicated than she had previously imagined. Even a bit dangerous. A tiny frisson of excitement skated up her spine. Anabel had never been confronted with danger, but she had never backed away from anything in her life before either. Handling Wesley Grant might well be a greater challenge than she had anticipated.

“Very well.” He pulled her closer—not enough to be truly improper but a significant distance to anyone watching. He really was a fine figure of a man. “When a man holds a woman in his arms and moves in concert with the music filling the air—filling their souls—it’s entirely possible to forget the rest of the world. To ignore everything except the feeling of moving as one, in perfect harmony, one body with another.” His gaze locked with hers. “It is at that moment that the idea of where a single dance could lead might occur to both parties. Is it no more than a pleasant interlude? Or is it a beginning? A promise perhaps of something new and wonderful and possibly forever.”

“What utter nonsense.” She stared up at him, her voice annoyingly breathless, no doubt due to the exertions of the waltz and not the look in his eyes or the faint spicy scent of him or the nearness of his body. “Is that from a play?”

“No, simply my own thoughts.” He chuckled. “I do have them, you know. Not everything I say is written by someone else.”

Heat flushed up her face. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“That I didn’t have a brain in my head?”

“No, that was not my intention,” she said weakly.

He chuckled and led her through a perfect turn. She wasn’t sure she’d ever danced with anyone for the first time quite so effortlessly. As if they had danced together always. It was rather disconcerting.

“I will, however, confess that the sentiment about the dangerous nature of dance is not mine alone. Didn’t your Jane Austen write that to be fond of dancing was a certain step toward falling in love?”

“I don’t recall,” she said in a lofty manner. “You read Jane Austen?”

“I read many things.” He paused. “Needless to say, I’m particularly fond of Shakespeare, but I enjoy Austen, as well as Mr. Dickens and Monsieur Dumas and—should I go on?”

“No, that’s quite enough. And I like Mr. Dickens and Monsieur Dumas as well, but I adore Monsieur Verne.”

“Do you?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am.” He chuckled. “My sisters are much fonder of romantic novels than they are stories of adventure.”

“I like romantic novels, as well,” she said coolly. “Enjoying one does not mean you can’t enjoy the other.”

“But Verne is rather, oh, intense, I would say. Especially for the fairer sex.”

She stared at him and then laughed. “Goodness, Wesley, do you think women are so easily led they are inclined to jump into a balloon at any minute to travel the globe because they’ve just read Around the World in Eighty Days?”

He had the good grace to look chagrined. “No, of course not.” He smiled ruefully. “My apologies, Anabel. That might have been one of the stupidest things I’ve ever said.”

“I do like a man who admits when he’s being stupid.”

He laughed.

Wesley Grant was going to be far more enjoyable than she had expected. And he didn’t really seem like an actor. At least not the ones she had encountered, which admittedly were no more than a handful. The few professional actors she had met were far more interested in themselves than in anyone else. Wesley really hadn’t said much about himself at all and he did seem to be genuinely interested in what she had to say. He was more intelligent than she had anticipated as well, which wasn’t at all fair of her. His profession did not preclude intelligence.

She drew a deep breath and smiled up at him. “I do hope you can forgive me if I implied you were less than—”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” He smiled down at her, tiny dimples bracketing his lips. “Misunderstandings are bound to happen between lovers—”

She sucked in a hard breath. “Good God, Wesley, we are not—” her voice dropped to whisper “—lovers. Nor do I want anyone to think we are! Why, I would be ruined. My reputation...”

The expression on his face was nothing less than angelic, overly innocent and entirely too smug. His eyes, however, danced with laughter.

She narrowed her eyes. “You should know right now, I do not like to be teased.”

“And yet I find teasing you to be most enjoyable.”

“Well, I don’t like it.”

“And does your perfect suitor do everything you want? Has he no mind of his own?”

“He doesn’t do things to annoy me.” She summoned a pleasant smile. It wouldn’t do to have anyone think they were having anything less than a romantic moment.

“Does Mr. Reed?”

“Douglas?” She scoffed. “No, of course not.”

“I see.”

“I daresay, you don’t see anything at all. And I would appreciate you keeping in mind that I am paying you for your services and therefore—”

“There is no therefore, Anabel. I shall play this role as I see fit,” he said firmly, “and I have no doubt you’ll be delighted with the result.”

It was all she could do to keep her jaw from dropping open. The nerve of the man! Who did he think he was? For the first time in her nearly twenty-one years, Anabel had no idea what to say.

The music drew to a close. Wesley released her and stepped back with a show of obvious reluctance. Admittedly, it was rather perfect.

He took her hand and raised it to his lips, his gaze never leaving hers. “You are paying me to be passionately in love with you. At least until the day after Christmas.” He smiled. “I assure you, you will not regret it.”

“I don’t intend to.” She couldn’t seem to stop staring at him. Her inner voice was right—this was a dangerous man. Still, it was only an act.

He released her hand and the oddest sense of loss stabbed her. “Isn’t it time I met your father?”

She gestured across the room. “He’s over there, I think, fuming that Aunt Lillian isn’t here tonight.” Anabel wouldn’t know anything about anything if it weren’t for Aunt Lillian. She took his arm and they started around the perimeter of the dance floor. “She was my mother’s sister-in-law. My mother died when I was very young and my aunt was widowed several years ago. She and Father are not overly fond of each other, but I’ve always thought she was wonderful.”

“Tell me more. The more I know about you, the more real our charade will appear.” He stopped midstep. “Where did we meet?”

She thought for a moment. Damn it all, she hadn’t even considered this kind of detail. “I don’t know. The British Museum?”

“Excellent.” He nodded in obvious surprise.

“Apparently I’m not the only one jumping to conclusions about the other.” They headed toward her father. “My being pretty does not mean I’m shallow. It does not preclude my being clever and interested in things other than fashion and gossip.”

He smiled but said nothing. Wise of him.

“Have you considered what happens after Christmas?”

“We go our separate ways, admitting we were not meant to be together after all.” She shrugged. “It’s as simple as that.”

“Is it?” he murmured.

It was really only in her mind, but it did seem the crowd parted as they approached her father. She shook her head to clear it. Father stood, talking with several other gentlemen and Mrs. Higginbotham. Mrs. Higginbotham and Father had been friends since their youth. Fortunately, Douglas was nowhere to be seen.

“Father.” Anabel tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and stepped away from the group, and their discussion continued without him. “I want you to meet someone.”

“Oh?” Father’s assessing and somewhat suspicious gaze traveled over Wesley.

“Allow me to present Mr. Wesley Everheart.” She cast an adoring gaze at Wesley. “He’s American.”

“It’s my very great honor to meet you, sir.” Wesley stepped forward and thrust out his hand.

Father shook his hand and studied him curiously. “Everheart, you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you any relation to Reginald Everheart?”

Anabel held her breath.

“He was my father, sir,” Wesley said smoothly.

Father visibly softened. “Fine man, your father. Never met him myself. Remarkable reputation though.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Are you following in his footsteps?”

“I doubt that I could, sir.”

Father studied him for a moment and then chuckled. “It’s a wise man who knows his own limitations.”

Wesley grinned. “Exactly what my father used to say.”

“Anabel, you didn’t tell me you had met the son of Reginald Everheart.”

“Of course I did, Father.” Indeed, she had mentioned him several times since she and Aunt Lillian had concocted their plan. Fortunately, she had only referred to him as Mr. Everheart and not Earnest—which she still thought was an excellent name. Better yet, Father’s head was usually so filled with matters of business, and who knew what else, that one could say nearly anything to him, and while he would acknowledge such conversation with an absent smile and a nod, he rarely remembered details. A trait of his nature Anabel and her sisters had long used to their advantage.

“Where did you meet my daughter, Mr. Everheart?” Father’s tone was offhanded, belying the sharp look in his eyes.

“At the British Museum, in a gallery of classical sculpture. She was gazing at the statues and I was staring at her.” He glanced at her as if she were the most remarkable creature in the world. It was enough to make a lady swoon if she didn’t know it was an act. But a very good act. “A goddess come to life.”

“I see.” Father’s gaze slid from Wesley to Anabel. “Douglas asked if he could see you home.”

“Father, I really don’t think—”

Father held up a hand to stop her. “That’s what I told him.” He heaved a resigned sigh. Was it at all possible that Father had at last understood she had no desire to marry Douglas? “I told him he could call on you.” Apparently not.

“I would be delighted to accompany Miss Snelling home,” Wesley said gallantly.

“Would you?” Father’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What are your intentions toward my daughter, Mr. Everheart?”

“Father,” Anabel said sharply. “This is not the appropriate place for such a discussion.”

“I assure you my intentions are completely honorable,” Wesley said with just the right touch of sincerity.

She discretely squeezed his arm. It sounded very much as if he was going to ask for her hand. Here and now. That was not part of the plan. She hadn’t thought to make that clear to him, but then she hadn’t thought it would come up. A feigned engagement was to be nothing more than a last resort. A card to be played only under the direst of circumstances.

“Completely honorable?” Father’s brow rose. “Then are you speaking of marriage?”

“Father!” She should have expected something like this. No man was as eager to get his oldest daughter married off as Sir Archibald. As if she would turn into an unmarriageable toad promptly on her twenty-first birthday.

“I did not intend to speak of it upon our first meeting but yes, sir, I am,” Wesley said without hesitation.

She stifled a groan. She wasn’t entirely sure if this was going very well or horribly wrong. Still, there was a lot to be said for a long engagement. At least until after Christmas, when Douglas would be safely on his way to India.

“My daughter is right, Mr. Everheart, this is neither the time nor the place to discuss such matters.” Father smiled. “I shall expect you to call on me tomorrow afternoon and we can continue this discussion. Say around three?”

“I shall be delighted, sir,” Wesley said.

Anabel bit her lip. Protesting would only cause suspicion, but the last thing she wanted was her father meeting with Wesley alone.

“Anabel.” Father glanced at her. “Shall we take our leave?”

She nodded with relief. “Yes, of course.”

“I shall see you tomorrow then, Mr. Everheart.”

“I look forward to it, sir.” Wesley smiled and then turned to Anabel and took her hand, lifting it to his lips, gazing into her eyes. The man was exceptionally good at this sort of thing. Why, he made her fairly shiver with excitement even though she knew this was nothing more than an act. “I shall count the hours, Miss Snelling.”

She summoned her brightest smile. “As will I, Mr. Everheart.”

“Shall we, my dear?” Father offered his arm. “Good evening, Mr. Everheart.”

“Good evening, sir.” Wesley nodded and then gave her a decidedly smug smile, although what on earth he had to be smug about was beyond her.

Still, the disquieting thought occurred to her that Wesley Grant might prove to be a problem far greater than either Douglas or Father’s desire to see her wed.

* * *

THE SON OF Reginald Everheart?

Ophelia Higginbotham—Effie to her friends—couldn’t help overhearing the conversation between her old friend, his daughter and the American. Well, she could have helped it, but the moment she heard the name Everheart, there was no question she had to listen in.

What on earth was going on? Who was this man? He was certainly not who he said he was. Effie was not about to let some fortune hunter charm his way into the affections of Archie’s eldest daughter. Something would have to be done. And done at once, even if it meant revealing secrets she had agreed never to reveal. But if it came to that, then so be it.

Effie and her two dearest friends were the only ones in the world who could unmask this American’s deception and save poor Anabel from marrying a man whose intentions were obviously not the least bit honorable. One might say it was their responsibility to rescue Anabel. Gwen and Poppy would certainly agree with her. It would involve a bit of thought on their part, and perhaps something of a devious nature, but it couldn’t be helped. The truth—as awkward as it might be—was on their side. This imposter had to be unmasked. He could not possibly be the son of Reginald Everheart.

Reginald Everheart did not now, nor had he ever, actually existed.

CHAPTER THREE

WES WATCHED ANABEL and her father leave the ballroom and resisted the urge to grin with satisfaction. A ruse with the fascinating Miss Snelling was not at all what he had planned, but it might well prove beneficial nonetheless. His purpose tonight had simply been to make the acquaintance of some of the gentlemen on the board of the Explorers Club—Sir Archibald in particular, as he was the board’s chairman—and then request a meeting to acquaint them with Wes’s new design for a chronometer for expeditionary use and rugged travel.

Wes’s grandfather had started life as a watchmaker and had gone on to establish the Grant Watch and Clock Company. It was now one of the largest such companies in America, thanks to his father’s business skills. When Father died three years ago, the running of the company, with its multiple manufacturing sites, fell to twenty-five-year-old Wes, who proved to be more than up to the task. And while the company continued to prosper, Wes’s true passion was in the development of new instruments. But the budget for development was not nearly what was necessary, and he could not continue putting his own money into his projects. He had a mother, three sisters and a younger brother to support after all. His board of directors had admitted that progress was important, but felt producing a chronometer for a small, specialized market was not especially profitable. The gentlemen on the board did acknowledge Wes’s argument that the endorsement of a prestigious organization that sponsored exploration would expand the potential market from scientific endeavors to leisure travelers, casual adventurers and anyone eager to acquire some of the prestige of true explorers by owning the same instruments they did. The board agreed that if Wes could procure such an endorsement, they would allocate additional funding.

Three months ago he had written to the Explorers Club and had received a response that anyone else would have accepted as a dismissal. But Wes had taken to heart the closing lines of the organization’s secretary’s letter, inviting him to further discuss the matter should he ever be in London as an opening. Two days later he was on his way to England. Even Uncle Nigel’s warning that the club rarely endorsed anything of a commercial nature failed to dissuade him.

Still, while Wesley Grant might not be able to convince the Explorers Club of the benefits of his new chronometer, Wesley Everheart just might.

Wes finished his glass of champagne, handed it to a waiter and made his way out of the ballroom. Now that he was supposed to be Everheart, it made no sense to stay.

“Goodness, don’t tell me you’re leaving so soon?” An older lady smiled and hooked her arm through his. “Why, we haven’t had a moment to chat.”

“And we would be devastated, simply devastated if we allowed this opportunity to pass.” Another older woman took his other arm and, before he could protest, propelled him down the hallway. “We’ve waited far too long to meet you.”

“To meet me?” Was he once again being mistaken for someone else?

“Oh my, yes,” the shorter lady on his left said. “We would never forgive ourselves if we failed to make the acquaintance of the son of Reginald Everheart.”

Wes bit back a groan. He couldn’t very well deny he was Everheart now.

They stopped in front of the library doors, which opened at once, and practically pushed him into the room. Apparently the library was the hub of clandestine meetings at an Explorers Club social event. Another older lady awaited them.

“Good evening, Mr. Everheart,” she said and waved at a chair that was facing the door. “Do sit down.”

One look at the determined faces confronting him, and he knew any protest would be futile. Still... “I was just about to leave. Perhaps another time.”

“Oh, there’s no time like the present,” the lady who had first approached him said. “And I think you’ll want to hear what we have to say.”

“As we very much want to hear what you have to say,” his second escort added.

“All right.” He cautiously took his seat. “May I ask what this is about?”

“Of course you may, but first allow me to introduce myself and my friends.” The third lady smiled pleasantly as if she and her friends had not just essentially abducted him. “I am Lady Guinevere Blodgett, the wife of Sir Charles Blodgett, currently on expedition in Africa, along with the husbands of these ladies.” She nodded at the shorter woman. “This is Mrs. Persephone Fitzhew-Wellmore. Her husband is Malcomb Fitzhew-Wellmore. And this—” she gestured at his first kidnapper “—is the wife of Colonel William Higginbotham, Mrs. Ophelia Higginbotham.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ladies,” he said as politely as he could manage.

The women looked to be somewhere in their sixties, but that was nothing more than a guess. They were all trim and...well-preserved

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