by Karen Ranney
If she was lonely, it would pass soon enough.
In the street the hack was waiting. But music still flowed from the house behind her in the wall. A gate stood open, its curving trellis canopy almost an invitation.
It was an enticement almost as alluring as the paintings in Augustin’s Journals.
She descended the steps, but instead of walking on to the hack, she turned and entered the gate. A precipitous action. One that would change her life.
Michael left the ballroom to escape, if only for a moment, the clashing scent of the women’s perfume, the drone of conversation, and the heat of the room. He stepped out into the terrace, looked up at the stars, and wished himself home.
Robert had delivered an intriguing cipher to him just before he left the house tonight. At first Michael thought the code was a Caesar cipher, a deceptively easy puzzle, one that he had mastered as a schoolboy. However, the more he studied it, the more difficult it proved. Another complication was that it utilized the Cyrillic alphabet, in which he lacked knowledge. But he would learn it, even if it meant solving the code.
He had danced twice with Miss Ronson. More than that would sully her reputation. The second dance had been more revealing than the first, in that she had, of her own accord, spoken an entire sentence to him.
“I have been trying to get your attention all night, Michael,” Elizabeth said. He turned and watched his youngest sister follow him from the ballroom. She was dressed as a princess, pearls sewn to the bodice of her diaphanous pink gown. He couldn’t help wonder how much it had cost.
“Have you been ignoring me?”
“Not at all,” he said, smiling. “I’ve simply had other things on my mind.”
She removed her mask and smiled up at him. “You were too busy looking at the young ladies as if they’re sheep, Michael. Ready to be shorn.”
“On the contrary,” he said. “I’m feeling like the sacrificial lamb.”
“Are you absolutely certain you must wed an heiress?”
“The simple answer is yes. The more involved one would entail the economic situation in England, our investments, and our mother’s determination to outspend any woman in London,” he said dryly.
“But why have you been addressing so much attention to Miss Ronson?”
“She has an agreeable nature,” he said. “In addition, she’s an heiress.”
“She doesn’t have a penny, Michael. Her uncle brought her to London to find her a rich husband.”
Bloody hell.
“I should have known,” he said, disgusted. “She was one of the few women I’ve met tonight I thought I might like. She didn’t giggle once.”
She smiled. “I know very well why you feel that way. But Charlotte cannot help being silly, and Ada will surely not be so intense about her causes in time.”
“I don’t agree with you, Elizabeth. Neither of our sisters has shown the least evidence of behaving in a rational manner since the day they were born.”
She sighed. “They can be difficult,” she conceded.
“Perhaps it’s what’s to be expected, given our parentage.”
She was silent, then. He knew there was nothing she could say. She had been only six when their father had died, but had been as devastated as he. Nor was it easy for her, living with their mother and sisters. Of all his relatives, Elizabeth was the only one he genuinely liked. The others he tolerated because of his duty.
He bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “Go away, imp,” he said. “Go seek your own spouse and allow me to select mine.”
She left him then, entered the ballroom. She looked back only once, shaking her head.
If Miss Ronson was as desperate as he, then he must turn his sights elsewhere, and do so tonight.
There were three other candidates. Perfectly acceptable women whose fortunes were not in doubt. One was a friend of his sister Charlotte; another Babby’s third cousin. A third was the niece of a duke.
He blew out a breath and wished he had a measure of brandy. But indulging in drink at this particular moment smacked of cowardice. Instead, he faced the ballroom again.
He would return in a moment. But for now he needed a brief respite before he went about the business of saving his family.
Chapter 4
A woman’s smile is an aphrodisiac.
The Journals of Augustin X
The garden ended abruptly at a set of wide brick steps. Margaret hesitated at the bottom, looked up. The terrace was half shrouded in darkness, but the sound of the music was louder, almost beckoning. She slowly mounted the steps, keeping to the shadows.
In a moment she had forgotten that she was trespassing. A masked ball. She had heard of the like, but had never before glimpsed a scene such as this.
She had never envied the nobility and she didn’t now. Her path had been preordained from the moment of her birth. A commonplace existence, not one of privilege and wealth. But she had hoped to have a little more laughter in her life.
She stared, wide-eyed, at the spectacle before her.
Headdresses towered above the powdered hair of some of the women, feathers and jewels adorned others. There were costumes that were shocking in their brevity and others that were so cumbersome she wondered at their weight. One man, in particular, summoned her smile. His attire was that of a bear, complete with a massive head that he carried beneath his arm. The rest of the ensemble looked hairy and hot, evidenced by the scarlet hue of his cheeks.
There were silks so translucent that the shape of an arm or the long line of leg could be seen. Satin in resplendent jeweled tones of indigo and azure and emerald seemed to capture the light of the hundreds of candles mounted in sconces upon the walls. Diamonds sparkled, pearls gleamed, and tiny masks adorned with trailing feathers appeared designed less to hide a wearer’s identity than to attract the eye toward an inviting smile.
She moved to the side of the terrace, where the shadows were greatest. Only then did she see him. An onlooker, just as she was. A tall man with broad shoulders who stood in the corner of the terrace opposite her.
As she watched, he strode toward the ballroom. She took a step backward, until she felt the wall at her back. He turned suddenly and stared into the darkness.
“Who’s there?” he asked, his deep voice holding an edge of irritation.
He came closer. The faint candlelight from the windows illuminated his face. She stared, startled.
The man in the Journals of Augustin X.
No, of course it couldn’t be. She’d never truly seen his face. But this man’s hair was black and his square jaw mimicked the painted profile. Did Augustin’s subject have such an aquiline nose? Or lines bracketing full lips, as if framing his mouth for a kiss? It was too dark to see the color of his eyes, but his brows were bold slashes against his face. A monochrome of shadow and moonlight. Masculine perfection adorned with a frown.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
How did she answer that question? The full truth seemed too harsh for the moment. A purveyor of amorous literature. A woman fighting back poverty. One whose thoughts were certainly forbidden. Any or all of the descriptions might be true.
“Well?”
Evidently, silence was not an acceptable alternative.
“Does it matter who I am?” she asked softly.
“That answer gives you away if nothing else,” he said.
The remark surprised her. “Does it?”
“I shall not tell,” he said. “Your secret is safe with me,” he said, his voice clipped.
He looked back at the ballroom, then again toward where she stood.
“That’s very polite of you,” she said, confused.
“My own sisters used to skulk in the shadows, too,” he offered. “Gazing at the dancers with a look of longing.”
He thought her a young miss, hiding in the darkness and dreaming until she herself attended a ball.
“Would you believe me if I told you that I am not a schoolgirl?”
“Is that a rhetorical question, or are you telling me?”
“A question from a man who evidently does not trust a simple statement,” she said, stung.
“An answer from a woman who has learned the art of prevarication.”
“I have never been called a liar before,” she said, affronted.
“I did not call you one,” he said, moving still closer. “I simply indicated that you had learned the art of it.”
“So there is a difference,” she asked, only slightly mollified, “between the lie and the liar?”
“Is there?”
“I am truly not a young girl escaped from the schoolroom.” There, a clear enough statement.
“Then you should not be here,” he said. “Have you no duties that await you?”
“I am not a servant, either. Do you always come to conclusions so quickly?”
“Yes.” The frankness of his answer made her smile. He moved even closer. Now she could almost hear him breathe, he stood so near.
“Then you are a guest of Babby’s?” he asked.
“Perhaps I am only a figment of your imagination.”
“I have often believed that imagination is perilous,” he said surprisingly. She had the most absurd desire to laugh. “It is, after all, the antithesis of rational thought.”
He sounded utterly sincere.
“Do you consider that valuable?”
“Invaluable,” he said shortly.
“I take it, then, that you have never lain on your back in a meadow, and tried to see the shapes of things in clouds?” Nor had she, until under the influence of seven giggling girls.
He seemed to study her. She had the distinct impression that he could see through the darkness. “No.”
“Or envisioned something happening that might never occur?”
“What is the point?”
“Enjoyment.”
“Why not simply do it? Why just imagine it?”
He would, wouldn’t he? It was there in the tone of his voice, in his stance. An almost implacable will that declared itself. He would not see obstacles as a barrier, merely a gate like the one at the end of the garden.
“Have you never wished to be someone other than yourself?” As she did? Sometimes she lay awake at night and prayed to be removed from the life she lived, if only in her dreams. She had learned soon enough that it was dangerous to wish for such things. Her dreams had become heated things, leaving her wishing for more than her future promised.
“No,” he said bluntly. “Have you?”
“Yes,” she said, surprising herself with the truth.
There was silence between them, as if he were as startled as she by her response.
“Why are you out here on the terrace alone? Have you no concern that your reputation will suffer?”
“Are you someone I should fear?” She felt oddly safe with him. A paradox, because she sensed his power. An authority of rank, she suspected, and character.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
She didn’t belong here. Is that what he wished to determine? Why, in order to send her from here with a chastisement for daring to glimpse the nobility at play?
“An assignation? You do come to the strangest conclusions.”
The darkness gave her freedom she’d never before experienced. She felt almost heady with it. Yesterday she would not have imagined that tonight she would stand in the darkness, trading barbs with a man with the demeanor of a prince. A man who reminded her of scenes she should not have witnessed, for all that they were drawn with brush and paint.
“What judgment would you have me reach?” he asked, relentless.
“Is it necessary that you come to one at all?” she asked.
Suddenly, he stretched out his hand. “Show yourself,” he demanded.
It would be boldness to step out of the shadows. She should leave. Flee from this place. Instead, she stretched out her hand and noted in wonder that it trembled.
They each wore gloves. His were blazing white in the shadows, hers tinged gray by numerous washings. Yet that simple touch of cotton against silk seemed to open the door inside her. A great and hollow place.
A gentle tug and she was being bathed by the faint shimmer of light from the ballroom windows.
What did he see when he looked at her? A woman with auburn hair whose eyes were muddy green? Her smile was tentative, almost faint. Moored onto her face by a measure of fear as he surveyed her intently.
“A country princess,” he said softly.
“Is that what you think?” She should tell him, of course, that it was not a costume she wore, but one of her two dresses. But to do so would mark her a trespasser to this night, not a guest. Honesty would banish her from the terrace, and she found, suddenly, that she did not wish to leave.
It was early spring, the night chilled by a faint breeze. A whisper of winter still lingered in the wind. She had only a shawl, but she wasn’t chilled. The moment itself, or this one spot upon the terrace, felt warm. Rare and special and imbued with a poignant and almost ceremonial silence.
He held her hand gently, his fingers laced with hers. His gloved thumb brushed against the inside of her bare wrist, a curiously seductive touch.
Come to me. A whisper of longing only in her mind. She could almost feel the words, they were so strong. A thought passing from him to her? Or her own loneliness speaking? He was a stranger to her, yet she felt as if she knew him. Or his counterpart, painted on paper with such detail she could almost feel the muscles beneath her stroking finger.
He slowly pulled his hand away. The smile slipped from her face as he removed his glove, then reached out and did the same with hers, tucking it in his pocket.
She should have spoken then. Refuted his actions, demanded an explanation. But she said nothing even as he touched her. His palm was warm, large, square, and callused.
Her breath felt tight; her heart beat even faster as if in anticipation. It had been so long since she had been touched, even in friendship. Could she hunger for touch as she did food?
She would return to Silbury Village and become Widow Esterly again. Not Margaret of the wicked thoughts. She would teach her students, take tea with Sarah Harrington, listen to Anne Coving’s tales. In time she would return to herself.
But for now she stood silent and unprotesting of a man’s intrusive touch. She was not bound to this moment, only trapped in her own curiosity. And longing, perhaps.
The music seemed louder, a waterfall of sound. Encapsulating them not in silence, but in a melody so perfect and so joyous that it ridiculed her more decorous thoughts.
“I did not see you inside,” he said. Another invitation to truth.
“No,” she answered simply.
He took one step back and she followed it, not realizing that she did so until she heard the sound of her slippers. His hand slowly lifted until it stretched to his side, hers captured with his in the linkage of their fingers. She stood directly in front of him, a partner in a silent dance.
Before she could object, before she could announce to him that she did not know the steps, she was following them, and him, in an intricate pattern. An enchanted quadrille on a London terrace in the shadowed light from a hundred flickering candles. And in the brilliance of his eyes that sparkled at her almost wickedly as she began to smile again. She was as complicit in this deed as he. Adept at it, as the moments passed and they moved to the music of violins and cellos.
For all that she counseled herself against foolishness, it felt as if she trembled inside. As if something light and golden were being given life. She continued to smile, unable to hide a surprising joy.
The music slowed, then stopped, the moment silent.
She had never before understood the meaning of yearning. Not until this moment when she stared at a man etched in moonlight. She was Margaret Esterly, widow. A commonplace person, rooted in practicality. Not a gypsy of the senses.
His thumbs reached up beneath her chin, tilted h
er head back so that he might inspect her, discern who she was through her appearance. She wondered what he saw. He stretched out his hand and touched the edge of her jaw. A stroke against the smooth, soft flesh of her cheek. An improvident gesture. A prohibited one.
He released her finally, and they stared at each other, smiles forgotten.
She stood on tiptoe, her hands braced against his shoulders for support, and leaned toward him. Her mouth was only inches from his, her heart racing so fast it felt as if it was going to leap from her chest.
“Montraine? Montraine, by God, is that you?”
A couple emerged from the ballroom. The man strode forward, his smile one of greeting.
Margaret turned and ran.
Michael endured the greeting of an acquaintance, fighting against the urge to bolt from the terrace in pursuit of her.
She had, surprisingly, been about to kiss him. He could feel her breath on his lips even now.
Her skin was creamy, pale almost. Her cheeks bloomed with the color of strawberries. A woman who should have been draped in satin and velvet and silk, but who wore her costume of cotton with an almost regal air.
They had spoken as if they had been old friends. And, with the same familiarity, she had gently ridiculed his logic.
Did he know her? Who was she? A question he had asked her and one which she had managed to avoid answering each time.
Her mouth was made for kissing.
An idiotic thought. He was here for only one reason, to find a wife. Not to stand staring out in the darkness after a woman who’d fled from him as if she were terrified. He walked to the head of the steps, fingered her glove in his pocket. She’d almost kissed him.
There was a cipher at home, one that fascinated him. It would be wiser to return to his library than to marvel at the purity of the moon kissed face of a woman he did not know.
He was not a creature of his impulses. Even so, he felt a surprising amount of regret as he turned and walked away.
Chapter 5
A courtesan who has learned to delay
her pleasure only increases it.
