Love, Unmasked

by Vivian Roycroft

  Perhaps her glare said all that needed saying. Or at least Trousers backed away, tossing Jessica a rueful glance. Two more steps, and he vanished into the crush.

  The little minx’s lips pushed out in a pouting moue. Her ribbons, curling in delicate pink and white spirals near her right ear, bobbed again as she shook herself. “Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn’t do the same if it were Sylvestre Brightenburg on your arm.”

  Fidelity rocked back, her heart thudding. Of course she wouldn’t do such a thing… except she’d intended doing precisely that. And worse.

  A glint appeared in Jessica’s eyes. The pout gave way to a scowl. “You would, wouldn’t you… Diana?”

  Fidelity froze. Or perhaps the ballroom froze around her; it was difficult to tell. Shocked to her core, she could only stare at the minx and dream lovely dreams of the polished hardwood floor opening beneath her and sucking her out of the moment. But before she could sort her wistful fantasy from reality, a big, luscious shape loomed in her peripheral vision and a mellow tenor voice spoke.

  “Diana, is it?”

  Oh, no. For the first time in her life, Fidelity wished for some stronger words.

  Brightenburg slid between two potted plants and eased closer. High color flushed his cheeks and the golden flecks in his eyes had darkened with anger. His lip’s curl had tightened, but something that looked remarkably like satisfaction chased the rest of his anger from his face. He leaned over her, far more near than could possibly be countenanced by polite society, and his gentle touch squeezed her elbow.

  “Diana, my dear, you left the dance.”

  And if she explained why, she’d ruin Jessica’s reputation, before Jessica had another opportunity to do so for herself. Think, think; what to say? Fidelity shot a glare at the willful cause of her current dilemma. She might as well have glared at the moon; Jessica’s eyes resembled innocent blue saucers, fixated on Brightenburg as if pinned there. And if the silly girl didn’t breathe soon, she really would swoon.

  With a three-note swirl, the music ended, and scattered applause rippled through the crowd. The first dance, the all-important opening to the ball, was over. Her ten minutes with Sylvestre Brightenburg, which could have led to more as the evening progressed, instead had been squandered chasing down Jessica and doing the job her aunt, the wretched girl’s mother, refused to do. Fidelity gritted her teeth. It was past time to take the chit in hand.

  A discreet pinch, harder than it perhaps needed to be, and Jessica started from her trance with a gasp. “Ouch! That wasn’t—”

  Fidelity cleared her throat and lowered her chin. Jessica’s mouth snapped closed. The petulance returned to her pout and for a moment, guilt joined it; the minx realized what she’d interrupted.

  But only for a moment. Too much to ask, that.

  “What, are you hurt?” Brightenburg asked. A puzzled line creased his forehead.

  “Oh, no—”

  “Oh, yes,” Fidelity said at the same time. She awarded Brightenburg her sweetest false smile. “Would you excuse us, please?” Without awaiting a reply, she slid her arm around Jessica’s and tugged.

  Jessica scowled but dropped her voice to a whisper as she followed along. “Tell me you wouldn’t do the same—”

  A harder tug, and she fell silent. But just as Fidelity could feel the covertly watching eyes, she could feel the resentment broiling within Jessica. Hopefully the connection worked both ways; hopefully Jessica could equally feel the resentment broiling within her.

  She tugged Jessica to the sitting area, as far from listening ears as she could manage. “Plop your anatomy down upon that chair and remain there for the next two dances.”

  A startled, gurgling sort of noise responded. “This is a ball—”

  “And if you give me any grief, you’ll accompany me in a few days’ time when I return to the country.”

  The yank as Jessica tugged her arm from their faux cousinly entanglement sent Fidelity into a stumbling sidestep. She glared. Jessica glared back, color rising in her cheeks.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  Fidelity let her pointed silence speak for her.

  The flush darkening Jessica’s round cheeks faded to a furious and bloodless alabaster. Her voice dropped to a murmur, barely audible beneath the ballroom’s ruckus. “Fi, you can’t. We need you here, in town.”

  Oh, and she would play that card. Duty, duty, always duty, and never a chance for her. Fidelity had had enough. “So much for you ever wearing this dress—”

  “We aren’t in company, so that doesn’t count.” Jessica waved at the surrounding crush, too noisy and distant for their sotto voce conversation to be overheard. “Besides, if you leave for the country, what does it matter? We’ll be stuck at home, never able to go out. What use would I have for your dress or any other?”

  “It’s time for your mother to resume her responsibilities.”

  Jessica scoffed. “She’ll never come to town.”

  “She must, because I’m not your mother. Overseeing your coming out is something she must do herself. Now go sit down or be ready to leave town in two days’ time.”

  Fury flashed in those blue eyes, artless no more. “I thought you were our friend. I thought you were someone we could depend on. But you’re just like Mama — too busy with your own concerns to bother yourself with us. I hate you!” Jessica thrust past her and stalked away through the crowd.

  Before Fidelity could draw even a breath, a touch on her arm drew her around. Georgette studied her with her usual innocence, but her slackened jaw spoke of uncertainty. Great; she’d heard at least part of that exchange. Behind her, Blue Tailcoat’s charming smile seemed a tad fixed. He hadn’t overheard, but the argumentative atmosphere couldn’t have been missed. Beyond his shoulder, heads finally began to swivel away from their tableau.

  “Is — everything all right?” Georgette asked.

  Was anything? “Of course. Jessica’s merely tired and needs to rest a few minutes.” Hopefully that would make the situation clear.

  From the way Georgette’s already wide eyes widened further, it did nothing of the sort. Granted, the thought of Jessica ever being tired was rather ludicrous, especially as she hadn’t danced yet.

  The first strains of the next tune sang above the crowd’s rumbles. Great; something slow and gliding, just when she could use a wild country dance to work off some nervous energy.

  “My dance, I believe.” A hint of possession seeped into Blue Tailcoat’s smile.

  Fidelity’s heart skipped up toward her throat, startling here, and a strange eagerness filled her. Down, girl. She opened her mouth to accept—

  “No.” Again a lusciously masculine form loomed beside her, and she had to hide a little jump of surprise. How can such a large man approach so quietly? But behind his black half-mask, Brightenburg scowled. “The lady didn’t finish her dance with me, so I claim this one, as well.”

  Blue Tailcoat lowered his blunt chin, meeting Brightenburg’s glower with coolness. “You know, it’s the lady’s prerogative—”

  Brightenburg shook his head like a bear. “I insist.”

  And in the action, no mercy showed, nor understanding. The scowl deepened across his expression and his eyes slitted. He’d have his dance or the entire ballroom would learn why not.

  Fidelity’s blood chilled. No, no, everything was going wrong.

  But before she could finish panicking, Blue Tailcoat bowed. “Unlike some, I consider it exceptionally poor manners indeed to embarrass or inconvenience a lady. Very well.” The coolness in his eyes solidified to clear green ice. “But this discussion is not over.”

  “Are you calling me out?” Brightenburg’s laugh rumbled beneath the whispers surrounding them. “I look forward to it. Come, Diana.”

  Again he took her arm and led her away. But not before she saw the startled, disbelieving expression on Blue Tailcoat’s face.

  6

  Flattering. Yes, it was flattering that Brightenburg, the mos
t luscious man in Mayfair, insisted upon completing their dance. Fidelity reminded herself of that, forced the thought to the forefront of her mind.

  And tried to force out the irritation she really felt.

  The lines advanced in step, retreated, then broke into squares of two couples. Fidelity glided into place, a half-step behind Brightenburg’s precision, and turned to face the center, her partner diagonally across, another couple to her right and left at opposing corners. Their half-masks prevented her from recognizing them, but their open, fascinated stares were sufficiently mortifying; if they turned out to be members of her set, she’d never leave Kent again. The music purred along, maddeningly slow, as they joined hands and glided around in a sort of maypole circle.

  No matter how she tried to shrug it off, she couldn’t help but feel put out by the little contretemps. Which was silly, of course; she’d already decided she should be flattered by his attention, no matter how it had been forced upon her. The squares of dancers dissolved into arm-in-arm couples, reforming the line, but Fidelity again found herself half a step behind. If only she had the musical sense of a tortoise. She hurried to catch up—

  —and Brightenburg grabbed her hand and yanked her into position, much as she’d yanked at Jessica’s arm minutes ago.

  Fidelity stumbled into place, too shocked to resist, and cold realization flooded her. She didn’t feel flattered because he had no intention of flattering her. There was no compliment in his manner, no attention worth the having. No, she’d offended him, and he wanted her and the rest of the crowd to know it.

  How ruddy rude.

  “So why did you leave the dance, Diana?”

  If he put any more emphasis on her false name, he’d wear it out. Which would be a pity, for she’d just assumed it.

  Calm, serene, unflappable. Easy to appreciate and love — desperately she repeated her usual soothing chant, but wisps of anger slid past her defenses and the coldness in her chest deepened. Rude. Not brusque, not merely demanding, but rude. He’d been more rude than the most jaundiced rake, the saltiest sailor, the most villainous highwayman. At the evening’s start, she’d been ready to abandon her virtue for the man. And he’d returned nothing but slights and rudeness.

  So much for Brightenburg’s company being no punishment. She’d yearned for his attention for such an achingly long time, but now that she had it, she couldn’t say she valued it.

  And from this new perspective, his earlier question carried a different and disturbing meaning. “Will you give me your name?” he’d asked at the first dance’s opening. At least, those had been his words. But what he’d meant was, Will you give me control over you? For if he’d learned her identity…

  No, she wouldn’t do it. She’d not give him her name nor her virtue, not after such appalling behavior on his part. And the relief that swept through her at the decision was both a surprise and, in itself, another relief. She could expect proper propriety from her cousins without a blush for herself.

  And in her turn, she had no intention of telling him the truth. Jessica might be determined to ruin herself, but Fidelity refused to assist. But she had to tell him something — why did you leave the dance, Diana? — or he’d become even more unbearable. Thankfully, she needn’t think hard for a believable white lie.

  “I’d just realized that young whippersnapper was in attendance — you know, the one in the red half-mask? — and I won’t allow my — my nieces to keep such company.” Quick catch, that; if she’d admitted the girls were her cousins, she’d have given him a clue in the hunt he surely intended to mount after the ball. Behind her mask, she allowed herself a smile. “I do apologize, but it seemed best to warn him off before he made a nuisance of himself.”

  Again the lines faded into squares. Again they joined hands, glided in a circle, and returned to position.

  And again he laughed. But a brittleness in his tone hinted he didn’t believe her. “You mean Tate the younger? Oh, aye, I can certainly see where you’d be concerned about him.” He lowered his voice as they stepped close together and began their own, private circle. “He’s purely savage, he is, at the ripe age of sixteen.”

  Tate the younger? The painfully shy, polite, studious younger son of the Earl of Danvers? Heat swept into Fidelity’s face. Perhaps she hadn’t chosen her fictitious villain all that well, even if he had been leading Jessica into the back garden when caught. Or maybe Jessica had been leading him. He’d certainly let go of her arm fast enough.

  Whoever had been at fault, Fidelity’s lie was apparent and there was nothing she could do except bluster it out. “My dear sir, if you had the guidance of two young and mischievous nieces, even for a single evening, believe me, you wouldn’t ignore the sinful potential in such a handsome young man, either.”

  His eyes narrowed. No, he didn’t believe her. “Sinful.” He drawled out the word as if tasting it, waited for her to advance with the dance, then repeated it at a whisper, inches from her face. “Sinful. You’d know something of that, wouldn’t you, Diana… it’s Marchmont, is it not?”

  It took her a few measures to understand his question, and a few measures more, as she turned away and circled with her neighbor’s partner, to restrain her laughter. Oh, that was rich — he thought her Diana Marchmont, the elegant, proud, married Duchess of Benhall, out for a romp with a commoner! How wrong can a man be?

  And more interestingly, what will happen if he ever confronts the real Duchess of Benhall and the duke hears of it?

  The lines of dancers flowed back together as she carefully wiped the hilarity from her expression; her face might be hidden behind the mask, but her eyes weren’t. Considering his overbearing behavior, it seemed best to let Brightenburg’s incorrect assumption stand. After the ball, he’d go off on a wildly inappropriate tangent in his hunt for her. The Duchess of Benhall, needless to say, faced no danger, with her battalion of footmen and servants. Not to mention her wealthy and powerful husband.

  For a moment indecision unsettled her. Perhaps she’d merely become too content with gentle, attentive manners — like Grey’s; he’d never behave in such a boorish manner. Granted, one couldn’t expect a wild mustang stallion to show the elegance of a Thoroughbred… Grey had promised he’d be in attendance. Had that truly been his sober old black Melton coat she’d seen? There was something to be said for manners, and she peered down the line to the corner where he’d stood earlier. But the redcoats had flooded the area and the black Melton was gone.

  She took a deep breath and straightened. Again Brightenburg stared at her from his place in the men’s line, his gaze lingering on her bosom and tracing down her body. She hid a shiver, but this time, his too-bold attention aroused her self-consciousness, not that delicious tingling, the one she’d reveled in before. Strange, that. His invisible touch still traced over her skin beneath the cerulean silk, as strong and sure as his hand could have been. The change wasn’t in his behavior, but in her response.

  A change in the tempo; a shifting in the lines. The music was ending, her ten minutes with Sylvestre Brightenburg — her second ten minutes — were well and truly over, and if she felt any disappointment, it was too deep for her to notice.

  She turned with the other dancers and applauded the musicians, ignoring Brightenburg’s scowl.

  As he reached for her arm, she withdrew it, then settled her hand demurely atop his crooked elbow. Blue Tailcoat had reminded her that ladies had the prerogative and she intended to exercise hers, particularly while those surreptitious glances followed her every movement. At least stares had quit tracing her steps; that was a minor victory, right there.

  Brightenburg’s scowl deepened; he’d had other plans and didn’t like it when she foiled them. Well, he’d simply have to bear his disappointment, and she walked silently beside him back to her chair, her side blessedly free from his heat.

  Jessica still slouched in her punishment, one crossed foot swaying to currently nonexistent music in jerky little swings. Her pout seemed permanently e
ngraved across her features, blue eyes sulky, but she sat up straight, more like a young gentlewoman, when her glance met Fidelity’s across the ballroom. Best to pretend she hadn’t noticed anything; a full-out war with Jessica was the last thing Fidelity wanted to cap the evening.

  Beside Jessica’s chair, Blue Tailcoat waited patiently, hands clasped at his back. Something about Fidelity’s approach drew a deep smile from him, more intense than the charming one he’d given Georgette during the first dance. Behind his black half-mask, green eyes flashed a clear fire. Her pulse quickened again. She couldn’t say she disliked Blue Tailcoat’s subtle flirtations, no matter how strongly she’d withdrawn from Brightenburg’s not-so-subtle ones. And Blue Tailcoat truly had a charming smile. Whoever he was; surely she should recognize him, even behind the mask. Was he perhaps one of the gentlemen sharing rooms on Seamore Place? Caird, Ponsonby, Crompton? They were all a few years younger than she, but nevertheless delightful gentlemen.

  He bowed for her. “My dance, I believe.” His voice deepened, quickening her pulse again. And the snubbing shoulder he turned to Brightenburg meant he intended to claim her hand, no matter what objections might be thrown this time.

  And thrown they were.

  “Indeed, no,” Brightenburg said. His too-loud voice rang above the crowd’s rumble. “Diana — the lady you insist upon importuning — just finished a difficult dance. She must be given time to rest, and I,” he bowed over her hand, “will fetch ices for her and her lovely companions.”

  Fidelity froze. Heads began turning their way again, eyes openly peering between bodies and taking note. Just when everything seemed to be settling down… Strange that she’d never before noted Brightenburg’s boorishness; it seemed to be an ingrained habit of his and if so, she should have witnessed it years ago.

  And then she’d not have wasted the time on him.

  Color flowed up from Blue Tailcoat’s collar, darkening his face. But the anger didn’t tint his voice. “The lady must be permitted to decide for herself. Madame, would you prefer to rest or dance?”