by Sandra Dubay
Dyanna wondered what excuse the marquess had used to procure an invitation from the Barkleighs, not that it mattered. They had been friends too longLord and Lady Barkleigh and the Marquess of Summersleighfor either to question a request from the other.
"I hope this works," Dyanna breathed as the carriage entered Grosvenor Square.
"Why shouldn't it?" Charlotte wanted to
know. "My Lady Hayward promised she would see you home long before my Lord DeVille leaves Barkleigh House."
"I know. It is not Lady Hayward who worries me."
"Then what?"
"It's Justin. He seems to know thingsprivate things. It is as if he can look into my mind. He haunts my dreams. He"
The carriage rocked to a halt and Dyanna was snapped back to herself. A glance at Charlotte told her she had said too much. The maid regarded her with obvious bewilderment.
"Come along," Dyanna ordered shortly, annoyed at herself for revealing too many of her fears to the maid who, despite her undoubted loyalty to Dyanna, still gave her first loyalty to her master, Lord Summersleigh. Moreover, Dyanna steadfastly believed that Charlotte regarded Geoffrey Culpepper as Dyanna's fiancé in all but name.
It was Geoffrey who met them at the door. Pulling a plumed hat from his head, he swept them a grand courtier's bow.
"Welcome, Madame LaBrecque," he said, "or should I say bienvenue? Lady Hayward is upstairs waiting to help you into your disguise. I will show you the way and you can tell me how you like my costume."
Dyanna watched with bemused eyes while he turned in a slow circle before her. He was,
it was apparent, supposed to be a Restoration Cavalier. Dressed in bright yellow satin, his costume was awash with rivers of ribbon in shades of green and oceans of silver lace that cascaded from his throat, his wrists, and his knees. Rings glittered on his fingers and diamonds sparkled on the buckles of his red-heeled shoes. An enormous blond periwig, whose gleaming curls tumbled to his waist, engulfed his head, making him look like some hapless creature caught in the jaws of a great, hairy animal.
''It is . . ." Dyanna groped for words. "Astonishing."
"Do you truly think so?"
"Beyond belief," she assured him.
Happy, Geoffrey offered her his arm and led her upstairs.
"Now you must promise me," he said as they approached the upstairs bedroom where Lady Hayward waited, "that you will dance with no one but me. You have all but broken my heart by refusing to answer my letters or even meet with me. Tonight you can heal some of those wounds by being mine and mine alone."
Dyanna sighed. Why was it that the men in her life seemed determined to hoard her, like misers hoarding their gold? She opened her mouth to protest, but Lady Hayward, having opened the door to admit them, saved her the trouble by saying:
"Don't be so selfish, Geoffrey. Poor Dyanna's been all but kept a prisoner by Justin DeVille. Now that she's managed to slip away for an evening's entertainment, you cannot spoil it for her. And what is more, in that costume everyone will notice you and, no doubt, recognize you. If you are seen to be dominating the mysterious Madame LaBrecque, it might attract unwanted attention. The last thing we want is for DeVille to become suspicious."
Dyanna threw Phoebe Hayward a grateful glance as she was whisked into the room. The door was none too gently closed in Geoffrey's face.
"Thank you," she murmured. "I was worried. . . ."
"I know," Phoebe assured her. "But Geoffrey is simply afraid some other man will steal you away. I do believe he is in love with you."
"So he has said," Dyanna admitted wanly.
"Well now, we must get you dressed, mustn't we?"
Dyanna nodded, carefully averting her eyes from Lady Hayward's costume. Phoebe's costume, the Huntress, apparently meant to represent Diana consisted of a sheer and clinging silk tunic, golden sandals laced up her shapely, and shockingly exposed, calves, and a golden bow and quiver that lay across the bed shimmering in the candlelight.
Still, Dyanna reasoned as she was quickly and efficiently undressed by two of the marquess's maidservants and then redressed in the beautiful, glittering costume Phoebe had designed for her, Lady Hayward had long been a fixture of London society. If she wished to appear so skimpily and scandalously clad at a costume ball, it must be permissible for her to do so.
And yet, Dyanna could not shake a certain feeling of scandalized astonishment that stayed in her mind even after she'd descended the stairs and followed Lady Hayward out to the carriage that would take them to Barkleigh House. Another carriage carrying Geoffrey and the marquesswho, eschewing royalty and deities, had decided to come as a pirate king complete with a bandolier of pistols whose weight made him walk at an alarming anglefollowed discreetly.
Barkleigh House, all grey stone and pillars, lay in Kensington, not far from Holland House. The line of carriages that had earlier moved at a snail's pace past the entrance had thinned to a trickle. It was only a momenta very short moment, Dyanna frettedafter their arrival that they were climbing the stairs to the ballroom while Lord Barkleigh's majordomo called:
"Lady Hayward. Madame LaBrecque."
Side by side they climbed the stairs toward the gold-railed balcony where an array of men and women dressed as kings and queens, saints and sinners, the famous and the infamous stood watching and discussing the costumes of late arrivals. At the head of the stairs stood Lord and Lady Barkleigh in the glittering, jewel-encrusted guises of Elizabeth I and her beloved Essex.
"My darling Phoebe," Lady Barkleigh cried, seeming not in the least put out by her ladyship's skimpy attire. "Welcome."
"Louise," Phoebe returned. "This is Madame LaBrecque, whom you kindly allowed me to bring."
"My dear," Lady Barkleigh murmured. Behind the silver mask she wore, her blue eyes were kindly. "We are delighted to meet you."
Dyanna murmured her thanks and exchanged greetings with Lord Barkleigh before she and Phoebe moved into the marble-floored ballroom beyond where an orchestra played from a gold-railed balcony high above the dancers.
"Does she know who I am?" Dyanna whispered.
"Not at all. Horatio simply told her you were a friend. He thought it best to keep the secret among us. But I daresay the Barkleighs would approve of your masquerade. I'm afraid they do not approve of your father's choice of guardian."
"Just as they did not approve of my mother's choice of a husband."
"Just so," Phoebe agreed. "I do not mean to slight your father, dear Dyanna, I met him only once or twice, but his reputation, even you must admit, is not of the best."
"Nor is my guardian's."
"Justin DeVille is beginning to make a name for himself among the leaders of the Whigs. I should not be surprised to see him begin to be heard in Parliament before too long. Unsavory though his family history may be, he seems to be bent upon redeeming his family name."
"I suppose that is commendable, but" She stopped, icy fingers clutching at her heart as she spied him across the long, pillared room. "There he is."
Phoebe squinted toward the opposite end of the candlelit room. "Where?"
"There, near the far door, in black."
Phoebe laughed. "Darling, there are a score of gentlemen in black. Which?"
"Near the settee, before the last window. Talking to that girl . . ." Dyanna's words trailed off as she forced her gaze away from Justin and toward the young woman on the settee. Dressed as the Queen of the Night, her simple, elegant gown of midnight blue silk was sewn with hundreds of glittering silver stars. In her upswept chestnut curls, a crescent moon of diamonds glittered with each movement of her head.
"Ah, that is Lady Arabella Bevis, eldest daughter of the Duke of Gresham. My Lord DeVille is setting his sights high if he thinks to woo and win that lady. But then, they do say he's made himself rich as Midas with his pirating"
"Privateering," Dyanna corrected without thinking.
"Your pardon, privateering. He would not be a bad match for our haughty Lady Arabella."
&n
bsp; Paling, Dyanna turned away. She felt sick. Was that where Justin had been all those days and evenings when he told her he was attending to politics? Had he really been out courting that proud, beautiful girl? Dyanna forced herself to take a good look at the girl. She couldn't be more than nineteen. If Justin married her . . .
Dyanna pressed her fingers to her lips. If Justin married her, he would bring her to live at DeVille House with himand with her, as a sort of foster mother. How could she bear to live at DeVille House with that haughty beauty as mistress? How could she lie awake night after night with Justin and that elegant creature abed but a few doors away? How . . . ?
"Dance with me, Dyanna," Geoffrey asked. "You promised."
"Later, Geoffrey," she murmured, already moving away through the milling throng. "I want to sit down."
"Sit?" He tried to follow but they were soon separated. "But I thought you came here to"
Eluding Geoffrey in the crowd, Dyanna made her way to a settee in a far corner of the room.
"Why did I come here?" she asked herself. "What did I expect to see? What did I think to find! I should have known what he was up to all those days and nights!"
Despairing, angry at herself for putting herself in such a situation, Dyanna did not feel the heated, golden gaze that studied her from across the room. She did not sense the curiosity, the admiration, the attraction she aroused in the heart and mind of the tall man in black velvet, who left his charming companion and went to his hostess's side. She did not see him draw Lady Barkleigh away from listening ears and whisper urgently to her. She did not notice Lady Barkleigh's reluctance to discuss the lovely, mysterious lady in scarlet and gold who had secluded herself in the corner. And she did not watch as Lady Barkleigh found herself gently coerced into crossing the room to Dyanna's side to perform introductions for a gentleman of whom she disapproved but whose name she had had to include on her guest list out of deference to his growing importance in society.
"Madame LaBrecque?" Lady Barkleigh said, her eyes betraying her distress. "Madame?"
Dyanna gasped, suddenly aware of them before her. Her eyes flew to Lady Barkleigh's face as the older lady bent over her.
"Madame LaBrecque," Lady Barkleigh repeated sharply, her very tone conveying her reluctance to introduce a female guest to one whose family name was steeped in scandal. "Lord DeVille begs to make your acquaintance. My Lord DeVille, Madame LaBrecque."
Unable to flee, finding it impossible to escape, Dyanna held out a trembling hand to Justin, who smiled down at her, golden eyes aglow with admiration.
Chater Fourteen
Immediately, Dyanna averted her eyes, terrified that Justin would recognize her despite her disguise.
"Would you dance with me, madame?" he asked, one hand extended toward her.
"Oh, no, I"
"Please, madame. I saw you from across the room and felt compelled to ask Lady Barkleigh for an introduction. I would be honored if you would allow me to partner you in this dance."
Not knowing how to refuse, and knowing that to do so would raise more questions, attract more attention than she felt she could afford, Dyanna laid her gloved hand in his and let him lead her to the midst of the dancers.
"I am given to understand, madame, that you are a widow."
Dyanna bit her lip. Her heart was pounding, hammering in her breast, filling her with a breathless giddiness that was half fear of discovery and half enchantment at being Justin's partner. She felt her hand resting in his, his fingers entwined with hers, his hand resting at her waist while their bodies moved in sensuous accord.
Raising her eyes, Dyanna ventured a single look at him. He seemed handsome as the very devil to her bemused eyes. All in black velvet, he wore a black velvet cap trimmed with pearls and black plumes on his tawny gold hair. The black silk mask that concealed the upper half of his face could not dim the enchanting sparkle of those bewitching golden eyes.
"Madame?" he prompted when she'd left his question unanswered for too long. "You are a widow?"
"Oui," she whispered, remembering suddenly that she was supposed to be French. "I am. Forgive me, monsieur, my English" She lifted her shoulders.
He laughed softly, gently. "I fear my French is little better. But I think we may be able to make ourselves understood to each other."
"I hope," she began falteringly, "I fear"
"You are very shy, madame," he observed, his tone as caressing as the warm look in his
eyes. ''That has not been my experience with Frenchwomen. They are generally very"he searched for a way to say what he meant without causing offense "animated."
"And have you so great an experience of Frenchwomen, monsieur?" she could not resist asking, carefully keeping her voice to a near whisper and its tone far higher than normal.
"I have known a few," he admitted. "But none so lovely as you."
"You speak prettily, monsieur, but how can you know if I am lovely? My mask conceals"
"Your mask does not conceal everything," he assured her. "Your lips, your chin, your throat, your"
He stopped and Dyanna felt a flush spreading hotly down her throat and over her bosom, which swelled above the low, square neckline of her gown.
"Please, monsieur, I beg of you." She tried to draw her hand from his. "You are too bold."
"I beg your pardon," he said, holding tight to her gloved fingers. "It is only that you seem to have fascinated me from my first sight of you. Such a thing has happened to me only once before."
"Indeed," she murmured, wondering with a twinge of jealousy what woman in his past had so captured his imagination.
He took her jealousy for offense. "I did not mean to anger you. I only wanted . . ." He sighed, knowing he was making a muddle of it all. "Won't you look at me, madame?"
Dyanna trembled, wishing the dance would end, wishing she were somewhere, anywhere, but there with him. She could not force her eyes up to his face, fearing he might recognize her. Wordlessly, she shook her head.
"Monsieur, I . . ." she began, and then, mercifully, the music stopped.
She tried to leave him, tried to draw her hand out of his too-tight grasp. But he refused to release her.
"Please, madame," he entreated. "I need to see"
"No!" she hissed, jerking her hand free. "I must go!"
Before Justin could react, before he could plea for forgiveness for whatever offense he had apparently given her, or try to restrain her, Dyanna had caught up her brocade and satin skirts and fled, running blindly through the nearest door.
In the long, deserted hall outside the ballroom, she paused, shaking.
"Why did I come here?" she demanded of the emptiness that stretched before her. "I knew he would be here. I knew"
Behind her, the latch was swinging downward, the door was opening. Instinctively, Dyanna knew it was Justin following her, pursuing her. Without a thought to where she it went, she went on down the long, narrow, candlelit hallway.
Again and again she paused, listening, and each time she heard his footfalls behind her, getting closer, advancing relentlessly, unerringly.
Near panic, she pushed open the last set of doors at the end of the hall. The room was dark, only the slightest sliver of moonlight finding its way between the drawn draperies at the tall windows. Unseeing, Dyanna groped her way around a table and a chair before her hands found the unyielding wall of a tall, carved armoire.
Trembling, she leaned against it, breast heaving.
And then, from outside in the hall, she heard the sound of footsteps approaching. She held her breath as they slowed, passed her door, then stopped and returned.
Dyanna took a step toward the door, cursing herself for not feeling for a key she could twist in the lock.
"Please," she whispered, eyes tightly shut, "oh, please, make him go back to the"
The rest of her plea went unuttered as the latch shimmered, catching the moonlight as it was pressed down. As the door swung open on silent hinges, Dyanna shrank back into the shadow
s.
"Madame LaBrecque," Justin said quietly,
silhouetted in the doorway. "I know you are here. I need to see you, speak to you."
"Go back," she whispered into the darkness as he stepped into the room and closed the door. "Go back. Leave me alone."
"I can't. I'm fascinated by you. Tell me your name."
Squeezing her eyes tight, Dyanna whispered the first French-sounding name that sprang to her lips:
"Marie."
"Marie," he repeated, moving across the room toward her without hesitation, as surely as if the room were flooded with light instead of shrouded in shadows.
A shrill cry escaped her as his hand found her sleeve, closed about her upper arm. A shudder coursed through her at his touchthe touch she feared, the touch she'd dreamed of since that night at the Angel Inn when they'd come within a breathless kiss of becoming lovers.
"Marie," he whispered, drawing her to him. "I can't explain . . . I don't understand . . . but it is as if I have known you, needed you, desired you all my life."
His finger slipped beneath her chin and tilted her face up toward his. His lips touched her forehead, her cheek, her ear, before taking her mouth in a tender kissa lover's kiss. His arm slipped about her waist and pulled her against him. Her hands clutched at the soft black velvet of his sleeves as if they could not decide whether to push him away or draw him closer, ever closer.
Dyanna felt his hand pulling away the French hood that concealed her hair, tugging off the mask that hid her eyes, but she made no move to stop him. The darkness in the room was all-concealing and the burgeoning desire building inside her made her reckless, oblivious to anything save the growing, ravening hunger inside her.
Her head fell back as his lips traced the throbbing softness at the base of her throat and the tantalizing swell of her breasts above her jeweled neckline. The breathless, mewling moan that slipped between her parted lips fanned the flames of Justin's already raging desire.
