Granted, everybody in the ballroom was watching and probably already gossiping. But if nipped off quickly, the situation could still be lived down; if a fuss were made…
Fidelity shuddered and nodded.
His smile deepened and warmed, easing her tension. Beneath his gaze, her every nerve ending tingled, fully aware of his attention, his regard, his physical nearness. Could he see into her soul? More importantly, did he want to?
When she shivered again, it had nothing to do with Brightenburg and everything to do with Blue Tailcoat.
Then the music rose to a string-filled crescendo. A gentle touch on her waist sent her spinning; a firm clasp, holding her hand in an arch above their heads, kept her in place. The room dissolved into streaky motion and colors whirled past, ice white muslin, cherry wood paneling, candle flames and expensive green silk, then the touch stilled her, the clasp steadied her, and the music purred down to silence.
Leaving her staring into her partner’s clear green eyes, intense, soulful, and… and yearning.
Loving?
Fidelity froze as the meaning behind his heartfelt gaze hammered home within her. This wasn’t a man who wanted a scandalous fling, a dalliance behind the shrubbery or a tumble in a dark, private room. He wanted so much more than that. If the emotion he made no move to hide spoke truth, he wanted all of her, beginning with her heart.
And oh, how it hammered at the thought.
Then he blinked, glanced aside, and Fidelity realized she’d seen no dusky pink during that last, swirling turn. She stepped from Blue Tailcoat’s arms, ignoring the applause from the other dancers, and glanced over her shoulder.
Jessica and Brightenburg were gone.
8
“Don’t panic.” Without moving his head, Blue Tailcoat glanced around the ballroom. His lips thinned. “I’ll check the front and make certain no carriage has been called.” His eyes returned to hers. All softness had faded away, and Fidelity breathed again; with such a man assisting her, Jessica might yet be rescued. “Check the back gardens.”
Even as she nodded, he turned away, slid into the milling crush, and vanished.
Panic subdued but still simmering, Fidelity scanned the dancers and bystanders as she retraced her steps toward the seating area. No dusky rose along the forming dance line; not near the musicians, nor the refreshment tables, nor the card room doors. A flash of black in a herd of redcoats, and there stood the sober old black Melton. Her hope rose; Grey would be an excellent help in the crisis — but the hair above the black half-mask was shot with grey, shimmering in the chandeliers’ light. She’d been wrong yet again and hadn’t recognized her family’s closest friend. Some message hovered at the back of her mind, something she couldn’t quite pinpoint.
But before she could suss it out, a swoop of yellow caught her eye. Georgette hesitated at the doorway to the rear gardens, her primrose gown swirling around her feet. Their gazes meshed across the ballroom and the crowd began to fall away, fading and hushing as if they no longer existed. Fidelity forced herself to continue her steady pace, one genteel step after the next, when all she wanted to do was break into a gallop and rush into battle. For something close to terror twisted Georgette’s face. She glanced through the open doors, back to Fidelity, again through the doors…
Careful. Don’t attract attention. Fidelity shook open her fan and fluttered it casually, hiding the surely fearful expression in her eyes. The distance to the doors melted away. A lively reel began and the crowd surged toward the dance floor. With the crush falling away she let her pace quicken until she strode in tempo with the music. Had anyone else seen that silent scream for help? Would Grey follow, if he saw? Georgette glanced again through the back doors and this time didn’t look away, one hand covering her mouth.
Fidelity slid her hand around the girl’s shoulders and pulled her close. The back doors led to a patio, bricked terraces falling away toward the river. Lanterns hung from the trees, their red glow lighting freestanding brick walls dotted with shelves and potted plants, a knot garden surrounded by low bushes, higher bushes blocking the view, a preening peacock topiary with hothouse begonias coloring its tail. Too many places to look; the worst could happen before—
“Where are they?”
“Oh, Fi—” Georgette grabbed her arm and dragged her through the door. “I saw— he—”
Down the first terrace, toward the first brick wall. A noise, a whimper, somewhere off in the dark? Fidelity’s blood froze and fury drove out horror. If Jessica was hurt, she’d gladly lose every claim to a calm, serene, unflappable temperament, so long as Brightenburg paid for his crimes. Surely Grey had seen her run off; surely he’d follow and help her. Surely they’d be in time.
“Where?”
“This way.” Her other hand hiking her skirt, Georgette danced down the brick layers and ran past the peacock. “They went— then he—”
Begonias spilled from clay pots, their sweet, spicy perfume flooding her lungs. Several pots stood on each brick wall, and Georgette and she swished past the plants, away from the lantern light and into the shadows. Another whimper. Fidelity pushed Georgette aside and peered around the last corner.
In the casual shelter of an evergreen bush, a luscious form pressed hips-first against the outer wall. Muslin splayed against the bricks beside his white-stockinged calves; he had her pinned and leaned against her. Fidelity’s fury turned cold. She couldn’t see the girl’s face behind those broad shoulders, not even her hair, but there was no doubt of the victim’s identity, nor that she fought against his enforced attentions. Without breaking the kiss, Brightenburg jerked Jessica’s hands above their heads with one of his, and the other— the other—
Even her rage froze away. Fidelity dropped the fan, grabbed the closest clay pot, and smashed it down over Brightenburg’s head.
Dirt and shards rained over his hair, his shoulders. He crumpled where he stood, a stem of flowers trailing across his back. Fidelity yanked Jessica away, thrust the girl behind her, and hefted another pot — just in case. “Mister Brightenburg, how dare you?”
Was he dead? No, more’s the pity; he stirred on the brick pathway, shaking his head and fumbling to push himself to hands and knees. The flowers on his back fell away; so did his mask. Fidelity took aim, the fired clay heavy in her grip. Would she always remember this moment whenever she smelled begonias?
“Such behavior is an affront to all women everywhere.” She didn’t bother to keep her voice low or soft. Her invented, boring persona could go hang. “This young lady has done nothing to deserve your reprehensible attentions. She is my responsibility and my friend, and I will not allow you to harm her.”
With a quick twist, Brightenburg rolled away and staggered up. A dark wetness trickled down the side of his face and dripped to his coat, colorless in the winter night’s shadows. “Blast your eyes, you ruddy—”
Heart thudding, Fidelity stepped back, her clumsy weapon poised. But footsteps pounded up the brick path. A man ripped around the corner — Blue Tailcoat, thank heavens — took in the scene with a swift glance, and slid to a stop before Brightenburg, shielding Fidelity and the girls with his own body.
Brightenburg stumbled back a step. “—you ruddy b—”
Before he could complete the insult, Blue Tailcoat’s fist flashed out. It buried itself into Brightenburg’s nose with a surprisingly loud crunch. Brightenburg’s head whipped back and he collapsed again, thudding onto the brick pathway, pretty much back where he’d started.
“Surely even your decadence wouldn’t stretch to insulting a lady, Brightenburg.”
That voice. That voice.
Again Brightenburg staggered up, shaking his head like a confused bull. More dark liquid dripped from his nose, covering his swollen mouth. He glared at their protector. “What was that for?”
“Emily Cross,” Blue Tailcoat said, his tone grim. His fist rose again. “And this one’s for—”
But Brightenburg lurched aside out of reach, slamming his s
houlder against the outer wall. He gripped the brick for balance and swayed forward. “Look, you—”
A thrown disk smacked into his cheek — a drainage saucer for a clay pot. He staggered again, and another saucer hit his chest. Jessica and Georgette stood at Fidelity’s shoulders, each gripping more saucers, and a rush of pride swept through her. Her girls.
Blue Tailcoat’s fist hadn’t lowered. “I’m happy to offer you satisfaction. Will I be hearing from your second?”
With a snarl, Brightenburg wiped blood from his chin, turned, and stalked away into the night.
* * * *
Fidelity set the pot down — amazing that the poor begonia had survived her not-so-tender attentions — dusted off her hands, and pulled her girls into a tight embrace.
“I’m sorry.” Jessica’s face crumpled and her voice vanished into a wail. “I knew I shouldn’t leave with him, but—”
“You can be no more sorry than I.” A kiss to each smooth cheek, both remarkably dry, and Fidelity tightened the embrace. “You did nothing but follow my own despicable example, and if anything had happened to you, it would have been my fault. Can you forgive me?”
“Forgive you?” Jessica pulled back, her eyes enormous. “When I wanted so much to hurt you? You did nothing—”
“—except set the entire ridiculous train in motion.” Another kiss, a warm glance with her heart in her eyes. “I think we’ve both wised up, but I am so very sorry for the fright you’ve suffered.”
Georgette squeezed them both back together into a pile of warmth. “If you like, we can leave early.”
Fidelity paused. She didn’t want to. She wanted to stay and dance again with Blue Tailcoat, figure out who that remarkable man was — he’d withdrawn to the lantern light’s edge, letting them sort themselves out in secure privacy, generous man. She wanted to suffuse herself in his appreciation and learn more of his gentlemanlike ways. But perhaps it would be for the best. Surely she’d find him again. And surely Jessica needed quiet and peace to fully recover.
But a light flared in those blue eyes and Jessica’s chin lifted. Still no tears dampened her face. “I’ve never left a ball early in my life and I won’t start now in compliment to him.”
The giggles couldn’t be stopped. “You silly girl. You’re brave and beautiful and I’m so proud to be your cousin.”
“Really?” Georgette nudged Jessica, eyes wide behind her half-mask. “If you’re certain—”
“Of course I am,” Jessica said.
“—then now’s the time to take advantage of the situation.”
They giggled together. “You’re right.” And Jessica smiled.
More hugs, then Fidelity helped the girls repin their curls. Repositioning her sardonyx brooch hid the torn lace at Jessica’s neckline, and they checked each other’s masks, ensuring they were firmly in place. Then, arm in arm, with sweet words of gratitude in passing, the girls slipped past Blue Tailcoat, into the spilled lantern light, and vanished down the path toward the house.
He turned. A flame’s red glow flickered across his black half-mask, glinted from his eye. His smile had finally worn away, only the edges of his lips turning up. Fidelity’s breathing stopped, her heart a second later. They were alone, in the back garden’s farthest corner, just as she’d planned for the evening to end.
Had they done that deliberately? Those little minxes.
She should follow them. Right now, without delay. Really, it would be for the best. But her feet disliked the idea. They refused to budge and before she could convince them, he touched her arm with his fingertips and every thought dissipated from her head.
Her heart resumed, with a strange, too-slow thudding. Still she couldn’t move, and so his hand trailed up her arm, the gentlest of pressure along her glove’s outer edge. For a moment he touched bare skin, between glove and sleeve, and she quivered. The touch removed itself immediately and she wished it back — oh, she wanted it back — but it didn’t return. Instead, she felt the very air move as his fingers continued their path, a half-inch from her arm, up to her shoulder, up—
And suddenly she knew his intention. Her heart leaped, but still she couldn’t move. So she stood like a statue, like a useless lump of shivering marble, as his fingers curled around the edge of her mask and lifted it up, not off her face but past her mouth—
He eased close, closer, until all she could see was him, his green eyes intense behind his half-mask, cheeks darkened with a beard’s early shadow, straight nose, soft lips. The slow thumping of her heart accelerated. Cold drove out her lingering warmth then in turn it surrendered to more warmth as he came even closer, then he leaned forward and she closed her eyes.
Soft and gentle, the touch of his lips to hers. The cold vanished again and a heated flush spread from his kiss, from some hidden place deep inside her. The two heat sources met in her chest and exploded like a supernova. Stars fell around her, behind her closed eyelids, stars shooting and burning, blinding galaxies and zinging comets, and he wasn’t even kissing her hard. He was holding back, letting her set the pace.
Fidelity leaned in and grasped his arms, turning her head and deepening the kiss instinctively.
There, the pressure she’d wanted, the delicious warmth spreading to her restless hands. Solidity behind her, the spicy sweetness of begonias falling around them; he’d backed her into the freestanding brick wall, pressed her there gently, and the softness brushing her ear wasn’t her hair but a thick, furry leaf. She opened her mouth, ready for more—
—and someone giggled. No, two someones.
Little minxes.
Aggrieved, Fidelity disengaged and glanced back along the path. Two squirming shadows leaned together beside the preening peacock topiary. Well, perhaps the situation had progressed far enough. For the moment, at least.
But there was one question which had to be answered immediately. She swept off his mask. He didn’t try to stop her.
And she realized she should have known all along. In all honesty, part of her had known; hadn’t she thought of him, not as Blue Tailcoat but by his proper name, as she and Georgette had raced through the garden’s secrets to Jessica’s rescue? Hadn’t she yearned then for him to see her need for him, to follow and rescue her, as well as the girls? Hadn’t he always been the answer she’d sought, the one she hadn’t recognized even when he stood before her?
Grey cleared his throat. “I’ve been waiting for you to notice me.” The mask slid from her face the rest of the way, and he leaned his forehead against hers. “Instead of him.”
Fidelity caressed his cheek, the hint of stubble scraping beneath her gloved fingertips. “I should have worn this dress sooner.”
His eyebrows crinkled. “Well, it’s — it’s a beautiful dress, one of the loveliest I’ve ever seen, but I don’t quite see—”
She shook her head. “It was meant to hide my identity. Instead, it set me free.”
“From Brightenburg’s influence?”
“From my own.”
The little minxes could go hang. Fidelity leaned in for another kiss.
Epilogue
four more days later,
Sunday, December 19, 1813
Fidelity stretched out her sewing, repositioning the ivory gown’s unhemmed skirt and tucking the finished bits underneath, out of the way. The morning room’s little fire crackled brightly, an able ally against the cold drizzle falling outside, and with its warmth driving away the chill the last of her happiness fell into place. Was being so contented some sort of crime? It certainly felt unusual.
On her right, Georgette stitched an ivory sleeve with cautious precision. On her left, Jessica’s attempted imitation of her sister’s sewing — well, at least the girl was trying. Two weeks ago, if handed a needle and thread, she’d have whined and pouted instead.
Perhaps Jessica felt Fidelity’s amused stare, for she dropped her hands into her lap and heaved a monstrous sigh. “Fi, I can perfectly understand wanting a new gown for your wedding. It’s
the height of good taste, starting your new life in a new gown, and every young woman should follow your example. But making it yourself?”
Fidelity let her smile break free. Someday, that girl was going to… make some lucky man very poor indeed, and enrich every seamstress in town and country both. “Well, I can hardly wear the blue one into church, now, can I?”
A suppressed giggle from Georgette’s chair. “May I?”
Jessica snorted. And that quickly, all three of them were giggling away like schoolgirls sneaking into the larder to steal butter biscuits. It felt so good, letting herself go and laughing with her cousins, that Fidelity rocked back in her chair and let the sewing wait while she enjoyed the moment.
A soft voice spoke from the corner by the window. “Mayhap my bride-to-be will wear that gorgeous gown to the Christmas Eve ball.”
Fidelity glanced up. Over the top of an opened newspaper peered a pair of clear green eyes, twinkling with mischief. She held his stare, even though it skewered her from across the room and melted her with his warmth.
No, that wasn’t a newspaper. It was a broadsheet. Grey read the gossip, doubtless learning what everyone had to say about the Maynards’ masked ball.
She swallowed. “But if I wear the blue gown, then everyone will know—”
“—that I roundly defeated Sylvestre Brightenburg in the only competition that matters — the one for your hand.” The twinkle in his eyes gave way to a possessive glow. “And that I’m getting ready to claim my prize.”
Heat touched her cheeks. But she couldn’t look away, and Fidelity rolled her lips together. “Is there anything in the papers about him?”
She knew she didn’t have to be any more specific. Beside her, Jessica froze over her next stitch. She’d reacted that way ever since the masked ball, whenever that name was mentioned. But at the Maynards’ she’d stayed and danced all night long, finishing the evening on the arm of Tate the younger, son of the Earl of Danvers, and everyone in the know had agreed it was a fitting conclusion.
Love, Unmasked Page 6
