by Kim Bowman
Grey sat across from her, taking care to keep a respectable distance between them, less for the sake of decorum than for the state of his reaction to her. “Look at me.” He took her hand in his and squeeze gently until she glanced up to meet his eyes. “You have nothing to apologize for. You’ve done nothing shameful. I won’t have anyone thinking otherwise.”
Something flickered across her face and she glanced hastily away. “I’m a visitor in your home, your grace. I should have realized what it would look like for me to be walking in the mews.”
He sighed, suddenly impatient. She consistently showed more familiarity with his household staff than with him. “I thought we’d settled the matter of you calling me by name.”
“Calling you by—” Her forehead drew together and her eyes clouded with confusion. “Your grace?”
He lifted his head and looked off into the distance, pointedly ignoring her.
“Did I say something wrong, your grace?”
Her voice had softened but the tone raised a half octave, as though in minor panic. Still, Grey kept his gaze forward, refusing to answer.
A tiny whimper escaped her lips and nearly did in his resolve. Tension radiated off her body in waves. But as suddenly as all that, she sighed.
“Grey?” she whispered softly.
Only when the relief washed over his body did Grey realize he’d been holding his breath. He swiveled on the bench to face Magpie and captured her left hand in his right. “There, you see? Was that so difficult?” He brought the back of her hand to his lips and brushed the top of her smooth skin. Awareness exploded instantly but he tamped it back, keeping his eyes locked on her face.
“I-I suppose… not.”
Her cheeks flooded with that delicate rose color that reminded him of Wyndham Green. The tawny gold of her eyes deepened and he nearly lost himself there. Then his gaze dropped to her mouth, where the ghost of a smile hovered. He had to claim a taste.
No. Not here.
He fixed his eyes back on hers again. Was this the same young lady who had sat in his study, her eyes spitting fire at him while she listed the many ways he’d wronged Regina and Annabella?
She is that lady… but she is not your stepsister… best you remember that. A chill settled over him.
Grey pressed another kiss to her hand. “Well then, as I’m escorting you to Lord and Lady Fenimore’s ball, do you suppose you can remember my name, Magpie?” he asked softly.
She wet her lips and gave a slight nod. “Yes, yo — Grey.”
Sparks ignited in his heart when she spoke his name. He wanted to hear it again… and again. He wanted to hear it the rest of his life.
Someone tittered near the gate and Grey jerked around to see three young girls, not quite old enough to have debuted, lingering. They hid their mouths behind their hands as fits of giggles convulsed over them. A young woman, perhaps a governess, glared at Grey and then hurried the girls along. One, with barely tamed golden curls, stole a glance over her shoulder and gave him a saucy smile.
He turned back to Magpie. “We’d best get along before we shock all of London.”
Her eyes widened but she smiled. “Of course… Grey.”
They stood and made their way out of the churchyard and back along the street. When they arrived at the mews behind his townhouse, Grey hesitated. He buttoned his coat, but nothing could be done that he’d left his home with neither greatcoat nor hat. He glanced over at the magpie, with her simple dress, her hair spilling about her shoulders.
His body leapt to life at the sight and he shifted to make his reaction less apparent. The decision made, he swiftly turned them into the alley.
“Your — Grey?”
“Well… ’Tis the way we came after all, is it not?” He gestured at his clothing. “I daresay I look a bit like a servant — or a criminal.”
Her eyes swept him from head to toe and back, warming him to a feverish level where her gaze touched. “No one would ever mistake you for either.”
He glanced around. Their seclusion lent peculiar visions to his taxed mind — ideas he’d rather not act upon in the manner of a rake. He’d leave rakishness to his friend, Jon, thank you.
“Come, best we get to home.” He took hold of her hand and tugged, and together they fairly ran along the back alley toward his house.
Chapter Fourteen
When the carriage pulled up to the assembly house, Juliet rocked back and forth in her seat, straining to get a better look at the people streaming into the hall. Splashes of color in motion, the murmur of conversation by people climbing the long steps in front of them…
“Do be still, dear,” scolded Lady Charity from behind a garish red mask decorated with tall ostrich plumes that framed her entire head. The plumes tended to bob gently up and down when she spoke, lending her the unfortunate impression of a pecking chicken.
“I can’t help it!” She ducked her head to peer around Harmony. “It’s all so exciting.”
Next to her, Grey chuckled softly.
The coach door opened from the outside and Charity, closest to the exit, got out first, gathering her full skirts and stepping down in a genteel manner… and without the slightest hint of a limp. Juliet smiled.
Next Lucien fairly rolled across the seat.
“Uncle Lucien,” Grey said, his voice smooth and pleasant but carrying an undercurrent of warning. “Kindly keep our earlier conversation in mind. I do not wish to regret—”
“Yes, yes.” Lucien waved his hand through the air in an impatient gesture, then presented his back to them and heaved himself out of the carriage. He stood just outside the door, affording Harmony a courtly bow and then holding out his hand, which she took with a muffled giggle from behind the butterfly mask fitted to her face.
Grey shook his head and sighed. Then turned in Juliet’s direction and a smile spread across his face.
“Shall we?” He rose and stepped out of the coach. By the time Juliet had slipped across the seat to the door, Grey had donned his mask. In the place of the nobleman she’d come to know stood a dashing bandit with a mask of pure black tied around his eyes and a dark bicorn hat sporting a large white plume.
“Sir, did I not see you accompanying a young hoyden along the mews only a few days ago?” she murmured with a giggle.
“Mayhap you did, m’lady.” His smile widened into a grin. “I tried to spirit the young maid quietly away but she was having none of it. Insisted on making lots of noise to show her joy at being in my company.”
He presented Juliet with a bow and flourish and she giggled again. Then she lifted her own mask to her face and quickly tied it in place. When he stood and met her gaze, a grin flashed.
Juliet curtsied, feeling not in the least foolish as she’d feared she would. When she’d explained to Madame Giselle the sort of mask she wanted, the woman had stared as if Juliet had gone quite mad.
“A magpie?”
The aunts had fallen into helpless titters. But Madame Giselle’s hadn’t questioned further. Instead her artist had gotten to work straight away. The result had been a very simple and elegant black mask with a cluster of scant black plumes affixed to the right side and pearls fixed around the edges and in swirled patterns near the outsides of each eye. The nose had been fashioned in a small dark beak, quite similar to the bird-beaked Venetian masks some of the men wore, but far more pert and petite. Madame Giselle had been ecstatic at having a new mask design in her collection.
Grey stared at her with an intensity that warmed her blood. “You are without a doubt the most beautiful of all ladies here tonight.” He offered his arm, elbow bent.
As she took his forearm with one hand, she gathered the skirt of her soft blue gown in the other, and they began strolling up the long stone staircase toward the high-columned entryway. Behind them, the ducal carriage set off with a clatter of its wheels on brick. Juliet glanced over her shoulder, wondering where the carriages were taken to wait and what the drivers did while the nobility danced and a
te and conversed with one another.
Grey slanted her a glance, the mask and plumed hat adding to his naturally debonair manner. “Do tell me you are not plotting your escape already,” he murmured.
“Oh no, your grace,” she answered, keeping her tone very formal. “I have not yet been afforded the opportunity to kick you.”
Grey’s loud burst of laughter drew curious glances from other people entering the hall. Some merely nodded and strolled on, others called to him by name and promised to seek him out during the evening. None accosted him or attempted to delay his entry. In fact, it seemed to Juliet that many of the other guests at the masked ball stepped out of his way to allow him free passage.
He’s not just Grey… not tonight. He’s the Duke of Wyndham.
Chills tingled upward from her fingertips. She drew her dark blue cape closer, but the velvet did little to warm the chill that came from inside.
“It will be almost stiflingly warm inside,” murmured Grey, with a pat to her hand where it locked onto his arm.
Juliet laughed softly and pushed her disturbing thoughts from her mind, determined to enjoy the evening in Grey’s company. Her time with him would be short, and she needed memories that would last her the rest of her days.
He had been right about the air inside. No sooner had they crossed the threshold into the outer foyer than Juliet found herself struggling to breathe in the suffocating atmosphere. She cast a glance over her shoulder, wishing she could run back through the door to the blessed outdoors. As if understanding even that, Grey settled his free hand over hers where it rested against his arm.
Grey lifted his hat from his head with a little flourish, then shrugged out of his cloak and handed both to a waiting maid. He turned and offered a rakish grin before he assisted Juliet in slipping her cape from her shoulders, then passed it to the servant as well. With a polite curtsey, the maid dashed off. The heat of shame flooded Juliet’s face. She should be the one accepting the wraps handed off by the guests. At Wyndham Green, she would have been.
A court jester in a white mask decorated with yellow, black, and red leapt in front of them and performed a little jig. The silky material of his matching shirt fluttered with his movements and he tittered as he shook a miniature masked face on a stick at Juliet.
“Oh!” Juliet jumped back a half step then laughed at her foolishness.
Amid more devilish giggles, the jester hopped off again.
Lively music filtered through the inner doors that had been thrown open to receive guests, and Grey led her in that direction. As they drew closer, the stomping and thumping of dancing feet seemed to rattle the rafters. Juliet’s pulse picked up the happy rhythm.
When they crossed into the main ballroom, they waited at the top of a tall staircase while a butler announced the guests ahead of them. Juliet’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and her jaw ached from clamping it shut.
“Announcing, his grace, Graeme Roland Dominick Markwythe, the Sixth Duke of Wyndham,” intoned the butler standing to the side at the top of the steps. “And Lady Annabella Mary Lysandra Price.”
The muscles of Grey’s arm twitched under her hand, and his body jerked almost imperceptibly. He relaxed immediately and Juliet wondered if maybe he’d merely taken a near misstep… But then they glided down the staircase, their steps perfectly matched. She must have imagined his tenseness. When they reached the floor, Juliet stopped and spun around, looking up at the ornate domed ceiling far overhead. She didn’t stop twirling, taking it all in until dizziness overtook her and she stumbled, laughing, into Grey’s outstretched arms.
His lips tightened marginally as he righted her and steered her out of the way of the guests descending the stairs. “Magpie, have you been at the spirits?” he asked in tight voice. He was thoroughly adorable when he doted on her so and she couldn’t help but giggle.
“I have not.” She smiled, leaning on his arm for balance while she continued to study the room. “Do you not see how beautiful and intricate the wooden beams are overhead? How lovely and bright the lamps are at the side of the room? I’ve never seen anything so gorgeous.” She took another twirl, intent on firming the sight in her memory.
When Grey stopped her again, she pouted. Two tittering young girls passed, their white satin gowns swirling around their feet with their footsteps, their white masks adorned with gleaming jewels. Neither paid Juliet any mind, their hungry gazes instead sweeping over Grey.
“Magpie,” he murmured under his breath. Though she couldn’t see his forehead, she had no doubt he wore a frown.
“Oh, very well, I shall behave myself.” She smiled up at him. “Where do you suppose the aunts and Uncle Lucien have gotten off to?”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea.” He glanced around the crowded room. “A new dance is being set up.”
Juliet’s lips twitched. “Why, your grace, are you inviting me to join you in a dance?”
An answering smile pulled his lips upward. “Lady Magpie, I do believe I am.” He offered his hand palm-up and she rested the tips of her fingers there as she allowed him to lead her to the dance floor.
She would remember this enchanted evening for the rest of her days. The music began and she settled easily into the contra dance. It would take a great deal of time to dance up and down the line in this long room, but it didn’t matter. In that moment, Juliet’s entire world consisted only of the man sharing the dance with her. As they performed circle to the right, she glanced up and found his gaze locked on her.
****
“Might I have this dance, Lady Annabella?” asked the guest behind the long-beaked white and green mask.
Grey’s belly tightened at the sound of Lord Michaels’ voice.
Juliet’s mouth formed a curious smile and she tilted her head as though uncertain of the man’s identity.
Well, allow me to enlighten you, my little magpie. “I’m sorry, Lord Michaels, the lady has agreed to dance the next round with me.”
Michaels jerked up straighter. “Oh, but I thought — that is, this will be your third dance, will it not?”
Grey’s head buzzed as though hundreds of bees had taken up residence. What fiendish bee had been in his brain when he’d decided he and Magpie should accept their invitations to this ball?
“Is it?” he asked, keeping his tone to a politeness he hardly felt. “I’m afraid I have been enjoying the lady’s company so much I haven’t been counting.”
There. Let the man — and the other guests — make of that what they would. And he had no doubt whatsoever something would indeed be made of the fact that the Duke of Wyndham had indulged in an unprecedented third dance with… with… he closed his eyes. With his stepsister.
Thoughts of weaving tangled webs of deceit floated into Grey’s mind courtesy of a book of poetry he’d recently read by Walter Scott. He sighed. Well, there was nothing for it. By allowing the deception to continue Grey had allowed his own tangled web to be spun.
Magpie’s giggle broke Grey’s concentration and he realized he’d missed some questionably amusing comment from Lord Michaels. “If you will excuse us, Lord Michaels,” said Grey, interjecting a fair amount of coolness into his voice. “The lady and I were about to take part in the next dance.”
Without waiting for the other man to reply, Grey slipped his hand beneath Magpie’s elbow and led her toward the dance floor, leaving Michaels behind.
“How did you recognize Lord James with his mask on?” asked Magpie as they took their places.
“Well, now that was easy.” Grey grinned at her. He leaned close and whispered. “He has a peculiar mewling quality to his voice… rather like a suckling pig.”
Magpie’s mouth fell open, followed quickly by a hoot of laughter. Heads turned in their direction, and dimly Grey considered that he should care. In all likelihood, he was unbecomingly attracted to a commoner — for if she were of noble breeding, he had no idea who she might be. If a commoner would be his undoing, let it begin now.
&nbs
p; The music started and Grey quickly stepped back into the circle of the dance. Then he had only thoughts — and eyes — for the woman dancing opposite him. She giggled when they switched partners in the first part of the ladies chain and Lord Thorpe inadvertently trod on her toes. Grey winced. That must have been painful but she didn’t show it, never missed her step.
As they completed the partner switch and she returned to his side of the line, Grey couldn’t stop gazing at her. The lamps high on the walls above them enhanced her golden skin and gilded her hair. Whenever he caught her eye behind that ridiculous magpie mask, his heart swelled in his chest.
As the music ended and they completed the last steps, she nearly collapsed in his arms. Grey tensed. “Are you unwell, Magpie?”
“Not unwell, no,” she whispered, righting herself. “But a bit warm after so much dancing.” She sent a longing glance toward the doors that led outside. The brilliant overhead light flashed across her reddened face — what he could see of it beneath her silly mask. Her chest heaved as though she was starved for air.
“Come.” He threaded their way through the crowd, no small feat as decorum dictated Grey answer the hails and greetings of his peers. Some of them he knew from the sound of their voices, others might have removed their masks and he’d still have stared without recognition. He had but one person on his mind, one identity he wanted desperately to learn.
Finally, they made it to the courtyard, finding it blessedly deserted. She tucked her hand into his arm as they wandered next to marble columns. It was impossible to tell if her face had taken on a more normal color, since the night swallowed the scant illumination provided by the rushlights. But her breathing had slowed some.
When they reached the far end of the inner court, Magpie winced and stooped to touch her shoe.
Grey laughed softly. “Are you checking to make certain your feet are still attached?”
She stood and shook one foot, casting him a grave glance. “For a moment there, I did fear for the safety of my foot when that dear old gentleman missed his step.”
