Murder at Almack's: A Regency Romantic Suspense Short Story by Sharon Louise Page B

glimpse his face, his steps drawing him nearer despite a path that seemed to take him away from her. Of larger-than-average height, he bowed to Lady Sefton with the same grace with which he strode, then he turned fully toward Eliza as he made way for Lord Ponsonby to pass, the smile with which he’d greeted Lady Sefton still lingering on his masculine mouth, his blond hair fashionably cut à la Brutus, fashionable yet on the edge of unruly, his features handsome in a manly way, handsome and relaxed, but there was wariness in his deep-set, green eyes—one had to look to see it, but it was there—and a scar on his…
    Eliza’s body stilled. Her breathing stopped.
    Derrick.
    Her hands gripped her reticule tighter, her mind wanting to scream.
    Was she dreaming?
    Had the dreadful deed she was about to commit disordered her mind?
    Had her desperation brought his ghost to her like a mirage to a stranded, heat-struck desert traveler? He looked like a ghost, his body too thin for that tall, strong frame, his face haggard on the edges.
    Derrick.
    Derrick Albrecht Alphonse Trulington.
    Viscount Trulington.
    It had to be. That square jaw. That stubborn chin. That scar on his neck, near his ear, where she had smote him with a sharpened tree branch turned sword when he was ten and she was five. That smile, that devilish smile, muted now, the devils in the slight upturn of his mouth, but they were there, devils of mischief, Derrick playing a jest, a jest known only to himself.
    Her legs wobbled beneath her primrose gown.
    It couldn’t be.
    But his legs moved toward her with that light-footed, easy gait she knew so well, strong legs, muscled legs, a grown man’s legs, that’s why she hadn’t recognized him at first, Derrick had grown from a mischievous youth to a hardened man. A hardened man with a scar on his jaw, a scar that was new.
    Her breath began to hitch, tiny, inaudible gasps. Her miracle had arrived.

 
    Chapter Two
     
    Derrick saw the instant Eliza recognized him, disbelief warring with hope in her lovely, blue eyes, eyes widened with shock.
    “Derrick?” she said between tiny, inaudible gasps that hitchedin her chest, tiny little hitches that rose and fell with her breasts, her voice less than a whisper.
    He shook his head in the slightest of warning moves and held out his arm, and she took it, gripping it hard, as if to assure herself he was real, as if to ensure he didn’t leave. Her eyes never leaving his face, he steered her swiftly through the crush to the empty refreshments room, stopping briefly to pick up a candelabra, the scent of beeswax and lemonade and cake in the air, then he led her to the storeroom he’d reconnoitered hours ago as a tradesman delivering the flowers that adorned this evening’s festivities, the ton more interested in the Duke of Belville than either of them. “We must be quiet,” he said in a low tone as he clicked the storeroom’s door closed behind them and set the candelabra on a shelf.
    She grasped his hand and clung as hard as she’d clung to his arm. Through her white silk glove, her small hand was warm and trembling like a hummingbird’s heart. “I thought you were…”
    “Dead?” His voice was harsh, for all its hushed tone. He’d been reported so, as he’d learned in his French prison, the English soldier newly arrived who’d told him of this and of the charges of treason against him spitting in Derrick’s face.
    Tears filled her beautiful eyes. “Yes,” she said, her sweet, soft voice breaking.
    Dead. He’d prayed many a time the last two years that he was dead, but it was a prayer that had gone unanswered.
    “Your mother will be—”
    “ No. ” His hand clenched on hers, and she gave a small cry, taking a step back from him. He released her, his heart wrenching at the small harm he’d done her.
    “You cannot deny her the truth,” she said of his mother.
    “I will not shame her among the ton. ”
    “It is not shame she will feel,