“Have you ever noticed that adults love an opportunity to dress up and pretend they belong to another age?” he was asking cheerfully.
“It's strange, isn't it?” she agreed. “And after spending so much time growing up, too.” Banner, with some years of Jasmine Hall costume balls behind her, also had no need to count steps. However, she was ridiculously conscious of his hand at her waist and of the strength of his shoulder beneath her own hand. Idiot, she chided herself.
“I haven't seen your friend since the party began.”
Banner started slightly, and as some response seemed called for, tried to dredge one up. “I— expect he's around here somewhere.”
Rory looked pointedly at her left hand. “No ring,” he observed.
She toyed briefly with the notion of using the blond man as a shield, then abandoned it. Just because her grandfather had an absurd idea about a romantic involvement between her and this very self- assured man dancing with her, it didn't mean that Rory shared it, she decided firmly. “He isn't—um—that kind of friend,” she explained casually.
“I see.” Rory nodded. “That's good.”
In spite of herself, Banner had to bite her tongue to keep from taking the bait. But she managed. “You dance very well,” she complimented hastily.
“Thank you. So do you. You're also dandy at changing the subject.”
She was also very good at ignoring ungentle-manly teasing. Daring him with a frown to persist, she said briskly, “If there's anyone in particular you'd like to dance with or be introduced to, just let me know.”
“When's the last dance of the evening?” he asked instantly.
“Midnight. By tradition a waltz.”
“I'd definitely like to dance then.”
“Oh? Well—”
“With you.”
“I can't,” she said apologetically, both glad and regretful that she had to refuse. “Another tradition—that's my dance with Jake.”
Rory didn't seem noticeably disappointed. “Really? Well, my loss.”
“Thanks,” she muttered.
The musicians brought the dance to a resounding conclusion just then, and Rory, staying firmly in character as a Southern gent, bowed deeply and gracefully from the waist. “Thank you, ma'am,” he said gravely.
“You're welcome,” she said with something of a snap, and quickly, irritated with herself, went off to see to her guests.
Retiring to the sidelines to watch the next dance, Rory caught Jake Clairmont's ridiculously paternal eye on him. He returned the stare squarely for a moment, then purposefully crossed the room to speak to the older man.
The party had grown more cheerfully boisterous with every hour that had passed. Since the refreshments provided were lavishly democratic, more than one guest had succumbed and been escorted discreetly upstairs to a bed, either by a wife, husband, friend, or one of Clairmont's polite security guards.
Rory, amused and awed by the entire anachronous spectacle, wondered if anyone else appreciated this regression to another era in much more than dress. Some of the guests seemed enormously comfortable with their antebellum manners; there were several hot and rather tipsy disputes on whether or not the South really should secede, one lengthy discussion between two middle-aged men on Mr. Lincoln's merits, and one duel narrowly avoided when Banner stepped between the two combatants, saying cheerfully that she'd have no blood in the rose garden.
Not that there really would have been a duel. At least, Rory hoped there wouldn't have been a duel. For a dizzy moment, he wondered if he'd stepped back in time. The twentieth century, he realized in astonishment, began just outside those tremendous oak doors; inside this house, the Grand Old South reigned supreme—for this night, at least.
And it was fascinating to watch.
Rory had studied antebellum architecture and furnishings extensively, but his knowledge of the manners and morals of the day was culled entirely from fictional reading. He was therefore delighted and intrigued to see both displayed before him with an accuracy he didn't for a moment doubt.
No single young lady, he noticed—deducing “singleness” by the absence of rings—danced more than twice with any young man; older gentlemen gathered in groups near the refreshment table and talked brisk business; older ladies— Matrons! he thought delightedly—sat along the walls talking and keeping wary eyes on daughters and on other ladies’ sons. There was a great deal of lightly drawled flirtation and the batting of eyelashes over the edges of fans, and the dancing was decorous to the point of hilarity.
Banner, as the daughter of the house, moved among the guests, busily finding partners for wallflowers and keeping conversations going. Jake held court by the punch bowl.
Rory surprised a giggle from his hostess at one point, catching her in passing to ask incredulously, “Where did you find these people? Did you hire actors to put on a play, or what?”
“Aren't they wonderful? It's the same every year, and I just love it. The overnighters will be a bit sheepish in the morning, but once they're back in costume and on their horses they'll revert again.”
“Tell me I'm in the twentieth century,” Rory begged, half seriously.
Banner giggled again. “Wait until the party guests start to leave,” she advised. “No carriages will pull up to the front door—only good old Detroit motorcars.” Then she was off once more.
Rory didn't catch her after that until just before midnight, and then it was his determined intention to catch her. He pulled her firmly into the alcove he'd made use of before, saying to her questioning look, “I have to warn you.”
“Warn me? What about?”
“Well, I know you're too much of a lady to make a scene,” he explained, both astonished and amused to find himself reverting, just like everyone else, “but I think I should be a gentleman and not let you be—uh—caught off guard.”
“By what?” she asked.
The musicians were winding up for another conclusion, and Rory said hurriedly, “By our dance.”
Banner glanced at a nearby clock and said patiently, “I'm sorry, but I told you the last dance was Jake's.”
“Not this time,” Rory told her, a little guilty and a lot triumphant. “Tonight, the last dance is mine.”
After staring up at him for a long moment, she said carefully, “Rory, you don't understand. It's a tradition. If you dance with me, everyone'll think that we—”
“Too late,” he interrupted firmly as the musicians struck up the final waltz. Then he swept her out onto the floor.
Banner was given only a second to think, and that wasn't enough time. She saw her grand father watching with a satisfied smile and a faintly sheepish light in his green eyes; she sent him the dirtiest look she could manage without losing her smile. She was very conscious of the speculative attention following them around the floor and wondered wryly if Rory had any idea at all of what he'd just proclaimed to the neighborhood—and to any gate- crasher who happened to be acquainted with Jasmine Hall tradition. After all, it is the twentieth century, she reminded herself sternly.
“Doesn't it bother you to be dancing alone, with everyone watching?” she asked him politely.
Rory laughed. “We do seem to be the center of attention,” he commented. “But since the soldiers and their partners have come out of the woodwork to keep us company, we're not entirely alone. I wonder where they've been all evening,” he added parenthetically.
Banner glanced around, hearing herself laugh a bit unsteadily and not at all surprised by it.
“Is something wrong?” he asked curiously, looking down at her.
“Hmmm? Oh. No, nothing's wrong.” Banner got a grip on herself. “If you're interested, this ball is a tradition going all the way back to the Civil War,” she offered.
He was interested. “Really?”
“Yes.” Banner divided her attention between his gray eyes and the top of his ruffled shirt. “It was the last ball in this area before the War; actually, it was held the night before
all the men marched off. And it was the last time all the families were together. During the War, of course, there weren't any balls. Jasmine Hall was the first to—um—resume the tradition; although I imagine the first ball after the War was more sad than gay.”
Rory thought of the heartbreaking end to that tragic time and nodded. “Yes. So many men gone. So many widows dressed in black.”
Banner stole a glance at his grave face. “I think perhaps I should tell you about another tradition begun that night,” she said dryly.
“What is it?”
She could hear the musicians beginning to wind down, and timed her explanation perfectly. “Well, it just so happened that the son and daughter of the family got engaged that night— like so many young men and women. Anyway, the—uh—betrothed couples claimed the honor of the last dance. Ever since then, the last dance has been reserved for the master of the house and either his wife or daughter. Or, in my case, his granddaughter. And if a single daughter or son of the house dances with another gentleman or lady, it's only because they've become engaged. Until tonight,” she added wryly as the music came to a close, “the tradition remained unbroken.”
Stepping back from her startled partner, Banner curtsied deeply and gracefully. “Don't be surprised to receive hearty congratulations from the other guests,” she advised him sweetly.
Rory watched her make her escape, having gotten a pretty good idea of the meaning behind both her words and the martial glint in her lovely green eyes. He turned his head slowly, scanning faces until he located Jake Clairmont. Here's another fine mess you've gotten me into! he sent silently to that old rascal. And another misunderstanding, he reflected wryly, to clear up. He decided to speak to Jake before either of them was much older.
Otherwise they'd neither of them get what both, apparently, very much wanted.
THREE
IT WAS TWO A.M. The last of the home- going guests had stumbled or been poured into waiting cars, with the elected sober at the wheels. The overnighters had gradually, sometimes unsteadily, and certainly reluctantly gone up to their assigned rooms. Cleanup having been postponed until the next morning, the servants— Jasmine Hall's and those borrowed or hired for the occasion—had called it a night and gone off to bed. The musicians, paid and tipped, had packed up noisily and left.
And Banner, who had slipped away to remove her bulky costume as the last guests were dispersing, had returned to the library, where she knew her grandfather would be enjoying a few solitary moments before going to bed. She was going to have it out with him.
She was barefooted, and dressed for bed in a fashionably overlarge sleep shirt that fell off one shoulder and hung to her knees, making her look even more petite than she was. And the martial light Rory had seen in her eyes had achieved the dubious distinction of looking very like the fires of hell.
“You planned it. I know you, Jake; you planned the whole damned thing.”
“How could I have done that?” her injured grandsire wondered mildly from the depths of his comfortable chair. “Rory asked me if he could take my place in the dance. What was I supposed to say?”
“No,” she snapped. “And you could have explained to him about the tradition. But did you? Of course not. You made fools out of both of us!”
“Did I?” He smiled slightly, watching her. “How?”
“The whole neighborhood thinks we're engaged!” Banner yelped. “And, yes, I denied it. Who believed me? Nobody, that's who! Try to tell any of them—any of them!—that the tradition's just nonsense. Just try. You know it. I know it. I hope and trust that Rory knows it. But this entire benighted neighborhood is clinging to that last pathetic little shred of tradition as if it were the Union Jack!”
“That's very good,” her grandfather noted approvingly. “The whole speech, in fact, but especially that last sentence.”
Banner sank down in a chair across from his and put her head in her hands.
Jake smothered a laugh. “Now, lass—”
“Don't you ‘now, lass’ me!” she muttered, lifting her head and glaring at him. “You're matchmaking, dammit, and I won't have it! Or him!”
“Has he asked you to have him?” Jake asked dryly.
“I'm sure you'll manage to arrange that too!”
“I wouldn't think of it.”
The events of a somewhat surprising and exhausting day had left Banner with her normal control in tatters, but she gathered what threads she could and calmed down. “Look,” she said, carefully reasonable. “I know you're only trying to do what you think is best for me. But, Jake, I'm twenty- seven years old. I've fought the idea of selling the Hall, but I'm not stupid. If we have to sell, then we have to. You don't have to try and marry me to the man just to keep everything in the family!”
“It'd be the perfect solution, though,” Jake mused wistfully. “Rory's obviously got a feeling for the place, and I'll bet he could turn it into a paying plantation in the first year.”
Banner wasn't deceived by her grandfather's melancholy expression and words. “Fine,” she said briefly. “Then take him on as a partner, Jake; you run the place and he'll supply the capital.”
Quite calmly, and with the utter determination that defies argument, Jake responded, “I'll sell it outright or leave it to you. Period.”
“I can't afford it,” she said, equally flat. “And you were right—I'd rather see you sell than watch the Hall crumble.”
Jake was silent for a long moment, apparently weighing the strength of determination revealed in green eyes as stubborn as his own. Then he sighed and nodded. “All right, lass. I'll stop meddling. If anyone asks, I'll say that the last dance was an old man's joke. And we'll see if Rory makes an offer for the place.”
It had been easier than she'd expected, but Banner abruptly felt depressed and tired. “We both know he will. Are you riding tomorrow? I mean today?”
“Of course I am. So I'd better get some sleep.” Jake rose, looking down at his granddaughter and adding gently, “You should too.”
“I think I'll find something to read,” she murmured restlessly. “I'm not very sleepy. Good night, Grandfather.”
He bent to kiss the top of her head. “Good night, lass.”
Banner watched him leave the room. She sat silently for a moment, thinking, remembering, then rose with a frown and went over to a particular section of the bookshelves. She found what she wanted quickly and carried the leather-bound book over to the rug in front of the banked and glowing fire. She stretched out on the thick white rug—her grandfather's single concession to taste rather than strict restoration in this room—and began searching through the book.
It was a privately printed volume written half a century before by a Clairmont—about Jasmine Hall. Banner impatiently thumbed through the chapters dealing with architecture and people, pausing only once as it occurred to her, belatedly and wrenchingly, that the Clairmont name, at least as concerned the Hall, would die with Jake. She shook the thought away firmly and continued to scan chapter headings. Ah—there it was, just as she'd remembered.
Ghosts and Legends.
Raised up on her elbows, her feet kicking absently in the air, Banner read carefully, scanning some passages and paying close attention to others. The author had possessed, in addition to natural family interest, a talent for writing, and he'd done his research; every legend Banner could remember hearing from the inexhaustible Jake was set down here in detail.
The soldiers and their brides—seen only by those who would live their lives at Jasmine Hall.
Banner frowned. She'd seen them, if not in the ballroom, then certainly upstairs in the hallway. They'd been hazy, to be sure, but she had seen them. She read on.
And here was… Oh. She didn't remember that part. “It is believed that if the soldiers and their brides dance the final dance at the ball with a betrothed couple, they are signifying their approval.” Banner frowned again. “Damn their approval,” she muttered, and continued reading.
She was l
ooking for one item in particular, a vague memory nudging her, and found it at last.
The blond man.
He had not, she read in some surprise, been a Clairmont at all, but the “beau” of a Clairmont daughter. Killed in a hunting accident—and not even on Jasmine Hall property—he'd apparently chosen to spend eternity in the home of his beloved.
“I wonder if she married somebody else?” Banner questioned softly, making a note to look it up later, while irrepressible thoughts of awkward honeymoons came to mind.
According to the accepted legend, the blond beau had taken it upon himself to watch over all succeeding Clairmont daughters. He was often seen by other suitors, family, and friends though almost never seen by the girls themselves. And the only times he had been seen by the girls…
Banner read the last little bit with another frown, remarking firmly to the silent room, “Well, I won't be seeing you, if that's the case. And I hope your guardianship stops at my bed-room door!” Given the time in which he'd lived, she felt pretty certain that the beau would never think of crossing the threshold of a lady's bedroom.
Having found all she'd wanted, Banner leafed through the remainder of the book idly, her thoughts far away. She remained in her comfortable position, her green nightshirt enveloping her, feet kicking absently. And it was some minutes later that she felt a peculiar prickling sensation and knew that she was no longer alone in the room.
She'd become accustomed to the Jasmine Hall spirits long ago, often being conscious of them even when she couldn't see them; but Banner had been a bit unnerved by reading the confirmation of Rory's casual and unknowing observations. So she felt a little fierce when she abruptly turned her head to examine the room in search of a ghost.
There was absolute silence for a moment, broken only by her unconscious gasp. And for the second time that evening, she tried an unconcerned laugh that didn't quite come off. “Oh— it's you!”
Rory came forward to sit in the chair closest to her. “Sorry if I startled you,” he said quietly.