by Emily Royal
“It’s what our readers want.”
“But it reads like a call to rise up against the aristocracy! And I don’t like the reference to the Molineux family.”
“That reference was in your original, if I recall, Miss Hart,” he said. “You’ve always been eager to use the Molineuxs as an example of the corruption which must be stamped out. And you have told me several times that the aristocracy is an outdated concept which must be replaced.”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t condone a revolution,” she said. “Just look at what happened in France!”
He gave her an indulgent smile. “Miss Hart, your imagination is running wild. You should give my readers a little more credit. They’re intelligent enough to understand the true message of your articles. All I’ve done is make your work a little more exciting to maintain their interest.”
Lilah read the article again, then set it aside and nodded. “Very well.”
As Anne had often reminded her, she needed to consider her overall objective and not the detail. Not only did her essays help to raise awareness, but the income she received from Mr. Stock helped to fund Mrs. Forbes’s shelter for disadvantaged women. A little integrity could be compromised if it suited a higher purpose.
She glanced at the clock in Mr. Stock’s office. It was nearly four o’clock, and Sir Thomas had promised to call and take tea. An hour delay at Devon’s lodgings should enable Lilah to escape an afternoon of insincere congeniality while she weathered Dorothea’s criticisms and Dexter’s admonishments about her behavior.
Devon may be many things, but there was little chance of the youngest Hart brother ever being described as insincere.
Or congenial.
*
“I suppose you’re expecting tea.”
Lilah rolled her eyes at her younger brother as he gestured toward a threadbare chair. He turned to the footman who’d ushered her into the drawing room.
“Fetch a pot of the stuff, would you?”
“Very good, sir.”
“And another bottle of my usual.”
The footman bowed and left.
Lilah sat beside her brother. “Devon, should you be indulging at this hour?”
“It’s half-past four,” he said. “By now, the dandies at Whites will have drunk themselves into varying degrees of mental incompetence while boasting about their conquests.”
“But you’re not a dandy,” Lilah said, “neither are you mentally incompetent.”
“I think half of London would disagree with you,” he said.
Delilah took his hand. “That’s because they don’t know you as I do, Dev. Perhaps if you ventured out more…”
“I do go out,” he interjected.
“I meant during the day, Dev, attending functions, not prowling round the streets at night. What about the Stiles’s ball? We’ve all been invited. You should come with us.”
“Looking as I do?” He grimaced, puckering his scarred cheek. “I desire no man’s pity, nor his ridicule. I’m done with being stared and laughed at.”
“Your face is more likely to elicit honesty than one that’s pleasing to look at,” Lilah said. “At least you won’t be subjected to the insincerity of a flatterer. Besides, it’s a masked ball, so nobody has to look at you.”
“If you’re trying to make me feel better, Delilah, you’re failing,” he growled. “Do you know what it’s like to have someone stare at you in morbid fascination, then avert his eyes as if in fear that my disfigurement is contagious?”
“No, I don’t, I’m sorry, Dev,” Lilah said. “But you can’t hide away forever. Your spirits have been so low since your—accident. A wider acquaintance will restore them.”
Devon sighed. “You sound like bloody Fossett. He’s always trying to drag me outside.”
“Your friend cares for you, Dev,” Lilah said. “If he didn’t, he’d have given up on you months ago.”
“Whereas you persist in seeing me out of family obligation.”
Why did Devon have to be so infuriating? He’d always been the fun-loving brother to offset Dexter’s brooding seriousness—the brave soldier who’d been breaking hearts since reaching adulthood and who, most likely, had enjoyed a different woman at every camp.
Until the night that had destroyed his life.
“Why are you here?” he asked. “Don’t tell me it’s to inquire after my health or to persuade me to go to that damned ball. You’re avoiding Dexter again, aren’t you? Or avoiding the latest suitor he’s lined up for you.”
Lilah’s cheeks warmed, and she looked away.
“I knew it!” He let out a bark of laughter. “Dex will have a hard task on his hands, finding a man to control you, Lilah. But he never loses, you know that. You’ll have a fight if you defy him. In which case, your time is best served managing your own life, rather than interfering in mine.”
“I interfere because I love you, Dev,” she said. “Don’t you want to be happy?”
“You don’t understand, Delilah.”
“Then explain it to me,” she said. “I don’t care what you look like, and neither does Dexter.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, little sister. Appearance is everything to Dexter because society cares about it, and Dexter cares about society.”
He took her hand, his fingers, calloused from soldiering, rough against her skin. “Forgive me, Lilah. I know you meant well by coming here. You deserve to be happy more than I. Take my advice and enjoy your life and its privileges while you can. You never know when it’ll be taken from you.”
“You want me to be happy?”
He nodded.
“Then come with us to the ball.”
The footman arrived, brandishing a tray of tea things and a decanter.
“If you promise to come, I’ll take tea with you and read you my latest poem,” Lilah said.
Devon rolled his eyes. “That settles it, little sister. I’ll come if you promise not to hound me with your shrewish nagging, nor torture me with your attempts at verse.”
For a moment, she detected a glint of humor in her brother’s eyes.
Dexter might have given up on him, but there was hope for Devon yet.
*
As Lilah returned home, she heard Thea call out.
“Delilah, is that you? Sir Thomas and I were wondering where you’d got to.”
She pushed open the door. Sir Thomas was sitting on the sofa, flanked on either side by Dexter and Thea. The men stood as she entered the room.
“Will you join us for tea?” Thea asked.
“I was going to rest,” Lilah said. “I’m rather tired. I’ve been visiting Devon.”
Dexter drew in a sharp breath but said nothing.
“Is our brother well?” Thea asked.
“As well as can be expected. I believe I’ve managed to persuade him to attend the Stiles’s ball.”
“Which reminds me,” Sir Thomas said. “With your brother’s permission, there’s something I’d like to ask you.” He glanced at Dexter, who nodded encouragement.
Her heart sank. Surely Dexter wasn’t going to put her through the indignation of suffering a proposal from Sir Thomas in front of witnesses? Was this her brother’s way of manipulating her into accepting?
“I would very much like to secure your hand for the first two dances.”
Lilah could almost taste her relief, and before she could stop herself, she nodded.
Sir Thomas reached for her hand. “Capital!” he cried. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.
Dexter gave her a brilliant smile, and she could swear she saw cold triumph in her brother’s eyes.
Chapter Nine
“His Grace, the thirteenth Duke Molineux!”
A ripple of interest threaded through the ballroom.
Fraser had hoped for a discreet entrance, but he’d not accounted for Earl Stiles’s overenthusiastic footman.
He adjusted the mask over his eyes and approached his hosts.
The countess
held out her hand and smiled, her green eyes resonating against the scarlet silk of her n mask.
“It’s a pleasure to see you here tonight, Your Grace,” she said. “I’ve heard much of your enterprise. My husband is eager to taste your whisky once you’re in a position to distribute it.”
“Then I shall ensure you’re sent one of the first bottles,” Fraser said.
“You’re too kind,” she said. “Rest assured, we shall treat it with respect and refrain from using it to clean the chamber pots.”
She winked, then resumed her attention on her husband.
A masked ball was a great leveler. It removed the disadvantage of a limited acquaintance because the guests hid behind anonymity. Not knowing the name of one’s dance partner could not be branded a mortal sin. And, of course, any insult or faux pas could go unpunished if the perpetrator’s identity remained unproven.
But concealed identities had their disadvantages for a man on the hunt. And Fraser was in search of a very particular quarry indeed. His hosts were renowned for their eccentricity in inviting guests who distinguished themselves by means other than the possession of a title. Given that Earl Stiles was one of the few aristocrats to bank with Hart, Fraser had high hopes of snaring his quarry for a dance, if nothing else, tonight.
A couple standing near the terrace doors caught his eye. The man raised his glass to Fraser in salute, and the woman with him, her delicate frame dressed in a pale lilac silk dress with a mask to match, dipped into a curtsey.
“Molineux!” she said. “I’d know that red hair anywhere.”
Fraser bowed. “Mrs. Pelham, are you not dancing?”
“I will if you ask me.”
“Wouldn’t rather partner your husband?”
“That depends on whether I wish to survive the evening unscathed,” she said. “I’m afraid Harald’s prowess in the boardroom is matched by a corresponding lack of it in the ballroom.”
“I’m guilty as charged,” Pelham said. “The last ball we attended, I trod on Anne’s shoe and ripped her dress. If you return her to me with all four limbs intact, you’ll have greatly exceeded her expectations for the evening.”
“Then it would be my honor,” Fraser said.
He led her onto the dancefloor, where the couples had lined up behind Earl Stiles and his wife.
The dance began, and Fraser’s partner steered him across the floor, gently correcting his errors with a gracious smile.
“Are you enjoying the dance?” she asked.
He gave her an awkward smile. “I find myself unfamiliar with the steps.”
“Then perhaps my limbs are in danger, after all,” she laughed. “Would you prefer a reel?”
“I suspect the company would find a reel somewhat savage.”
“Then we must teach them,” she said.
Fraser’s gaze settled on another couple further down the line. The gentleman’s jacket was a little too bright a shade of red to be considered tasteful. But the man’s partner caught Fraser’s attention. Shorter than most, her wiry figure bristled with unkempt energy. Her gown was gray as if she sought to blend into the shadows so as not to attract notice.
Yet, how could she not be noticed? Her vitality vibrated all around her, crackling like a storm about to break.
Their eyes met, and she lost her footing and stumbled. Her partner pulled her to him, and her mouth twisted as if she issued a sharp riposte.
The dance concluded, and Fraser steered his partner across the floor.
“Will you dance again?” she asked.
“I doubt many ladies would relish being trodden on,” he replied with a smile.
“Nonsense!” she cried. “There are plenty of ladies here tonight with dance cards yet to be filled. You’ll be much in demand.”
“Then I must do all I can to remain anonymous,” he said. “I can’t imagine anything worse than being subjected to idle chatter about the inanities which ladies—present company excluded—concern themselves with.”
“You are, of course, at liberty to enjoy the evening as you see fit,” she said. “There are many men who prefer to sit in the corner and watch rather than participate in the dancing.”
Fraser glanced across the room to where a solitary man sat, his face almost completely concealed beneath a black mask. Even from a distance, he could see the man’s eyes glowered with distaste as he observed the couples. A glass of brown liquid in one hand, the other curled in a fist, resting on his knee.
“I see only one such man,” Fraser said. “Who is he?”
“That’s Major Hart.”
“Hart?” Fraser asked. “Then he’s related to…”
Mrs. Pelham nodded. “He’s Delilah’s other brother and something of a recluse. He lives alone and rarely ventures out. In fact, I’d not met him before tonight.”
“Did he arrive alone?”
“Yes,” she said. “He seemed very civil when Delilah introduced us, but she advised I leave him be, for he dislikes company.”
“Perhaps he has something to hide.”
“We all have something to hide, Your Grace.”
Most people did. Except one. The delectable Miss Hart exuded raw honesty. Sharp-tongued, argumentative women had no need for deception.
After Fraser returned Mrs. Pelham to her husband, he turned and strode across the dance floor, ignoring the hopeful glances of the young ladies in his path. His focus was on one woman only. Ballroom etiquette be damned, the urge to claim her was too strong to resist.
She stood at the far end, her back to him, engaged in conversation with the dandy she’d been dancing with earlier.
Her body stiffened as Fraser approached as if she sensed him. Before he could reach out and touch her, she spun round and tipped her head up. Her mouth was set in a hard line of hostility, but she could not conceal the feverish excitement in her eyes, which glittered through her mask.
“Would you do me the honor of dancing the next set with me?” he asked.
Her companion placed a possessive hand on her arm, but she shook it off, her gaze fixed on Fraser.
“I regret I am unable to, sir.”
“Are you engaged for the next dance?”
“Yes, she is,” the dandy said.
She flashed a look of irritation at her partner. “No, I’m not.”
Fraser moved closer. “Permit me to remind you, Miss Hart, for I believe you are promised to me for this dance, at least.”
He took her hand, and her lips parted, and she drew in a sharp breath. Her nostrils flared, and her eyes shone with need.
“There!” he coaxed gently. “You remember your promise, Miss Hart, I see it in your eyes. And you wouldn’t wish to deny me the pleasure, would you?”
She nodded. “Of course, I quite forgot,” she said. “Shall we?”
*
Lilah took the huge Highlander’s arm and tried to lead him onto the dance floor, but he resisted. Instead, he grasped her hand and pulled her toward him.
“You’ll find, lass, it’s the man who takes the lead.”
“You’re a savage,” she hissed.
He chuckled. “Your outlook has been tainted because you’ve been dancing with boys. It’s time ye danced with a man.”
His grip was strong, commanding, and though she wanted to fight against it, the thrill which coursed through her body at his touch conquered her resolve.
“I dislike being in the center of a room,” she said.
“I find it the perfect position for us.”
“Why?”
“Because it announces to the room that you are mine.”
Her body pulsed at his words, and her cheeks warmed until she felt her face was on fire. She daren’t look round the room—she imagined everyone’s eyes on her.
“I’m not fond of the attention,” she said.
“I thought a lady craved attention.”
“Not I,” she said. “Too much attention tempts a person to flaunt oneself. I’d rather carry out my life in private.”<
br />
“And remain hidden from the world?” he asked. “If I had a body like yours, I would not hide it from appreciative eyes.”
“You wish me to dress like a harlot and reveal my flesh to the world?”
“Of course not, Miss Hart.” He leaned over and dropped his voice to a whisper, his breath tickling her ear. “But, perhaps, your flesh may be revealed in private, for the eyes of a single admirer.”
His words sent a wicked pulse through her, and she shifted her legs to ease the unfathomable ache.
A number of other couples joined them, and the music began. Though he lacked prowess at dancing, he moved across the room with the self-assurance which came hand in hand with raw male power. Almost every unattached lady’s gaze was upon them, looking at Lilah with envy, and her partner with longing.
“I suppose you relish the adoration of the room,” she said.
“I should be offended.”
“I doubt a man such as yourself would take offense to anything I say or do,” she said tartly. “You seek to indulge in pleasure without one thought for those less fortunate.”
“And you seek to deny yourself and the rest of the world the joy of pleasure.”
She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held firm.
“No, Miss Hart,” he said. “You’re mine for the duration of this dance, and I expect you to honor your promise to me.”
“A dance is not a marriage, sir,” she said. “And I believe you voiced your opinion on marriage very clearly the other day.”
His lip curled into a smile. “Only because I find that every unmarried woman of my acquaintance is driven by a single purpose.”
“Which is?”
“To snare a husband,” he said. “By declaring my aversion to marriage, I ward off predators. I am no different from any hunted creature.”
“I’ve no wish to marry either,” she said.
“Doesn’t every woman want a home of her own, a family?”
“So says the voice of patriarchy.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “I should have known it. Jeremiah Smith!”
Her stomach turned to ice at his words. How could she have been so foolish! Had she unwittingly revealed her identity? She lost her footing and stumbled against him.
