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specialties ranged more with the Texas two-step or the latest line dance. Or maybe a leftover disco step
from the eighties.
What she wouldn't give for her mini-recorder or notepad. She'd have even settled for a piece of vellum
and a quill pen, if she could have figured out where to hide them in that costume. The minute she got back
to her rooms, she would write every electrifying moment down on whatever paper she could find. Imagine!
Attending a true nineteenth-century masquerade ball! She planned to absorb every detail, every color, every
movement, every moment. If only Alec were here to
She stopped the thought before it had a chance to be fully born. Any involvement with Alec would only
complicate matters when she finally managed to coax the ring from her finger. No sense letting a few
overactive hormones make life harder on her when it came time to return to the future. She shook away the
memory of his kiss the one she'd all but forced on him when he thought he was marrying Phillipa Morgan.
The way his lips had slid over hers. The taste of his tongue. The way she fit perfectly against his
"I've not seen you dance once! Did I sneak you in here so that you could hide behind the potted
palms?'' A raven-haired gypsy with Alec's eyes pirouetted up to her as if on a cloud. Gauzy scarves draped
over the lower half of her face lent Molly the perfect air of mystery.
"Better to not dance than to go out there and make a fool of myself." For the hundredth time that
evening, Shaelyn tried to sigh, and for the hundredth time she failed to expand her lungs enough within the
confines of the tightly laced torture chamber. "And why did you get to be the gypsy and I have to wear this
iron maiden?" She tugged at the squared-off decolletage on the seventeenth-century gown of a French
aristocrat. . . or courtesan. It was hard to tell the difference. One more time, she tried to stuff her
overflowing breasts back into the scant bodice, but the prehistoric push-up bra kept shoving all that skin
right back out. Even if she did manage to take a deep breath, Shaelyn feared the unthinkable might happen.
"Stop that." Molly moved Shae's hands away and readjusted her neckline. "You're going to make your
skin all red. One would think you'd never shown your cleavage. And why do you not know these dances?"
Shaelyn gave one final, futile yank to her bodice, then eyed Molly's comfortable gypsy costume with
envy.
"Where I come from, the dances are . . . quite a bit different."
"The dances are that much different in Louisiana?"
Before Shae could come up with a suitable half-truth, masculine voices broke into her thoughts.
William Hawthorne, dressed ironically as Henry VIII, rounded the corner of the room, deep in
conversation with a rather tall leprechaun with limp blond hair combed in thin yellow stands across his
balding head.
"She's nearly eighteen. Past time to be wed. If we can come to an agreement "
He glanced up and stopped dead in his tracks. He nailed Shaelyn with a glare, then raked his angry
gaze to his daughter. Molly's eyes grew innocently round above the scarves. Even in the dim light in the
corner, Shaelyn could see his face darken in anger and the veins pulse at his temples.
"Hello, Father, Mr. Crimmer." Molly acknowledged the second man with a slight shudder. "I just came
to fetch Shaelyn to . . ." She searched the ballroom and adjoining dining room. "Oh, there he is! Come along,
Shaelyn. He wants to dance with you."
The girl grabbed Shaelyn's hand and pulled her toward the vacant dining room and out of sight before
William could do more than sputter. Both girls staggered, giggling and out of breath, into the shadows of a
deserted alcove.
"He's going to kill you, you know," Shaelyn laughed, gasping for air.
"He shall have to find me first." Molly shrugged with unconcern and flicked at her scarves. Her eyes
danced with humor.
The sound of someone approaching caught their attention and they sank even deeper into the shadows.
"Ah. Two fair damsels, hopefully in distress." The voice belonged to a knight in chain mail with a helmet
for a mask. "Are either of you in need of rescuing?''
Though he spoke to them both, his eyes never left Molly's. And Molly's never left his. It didn't take a
genius to figure out that he had come in search of his gypsy, and he'd zeroed in on her even when they'd
been hiding.
Molly's gaze flickered to Shaelyn with a hint of apology before turning back to her fairy-tale hero.
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