Magical Masquerade: A Regency Masquerade

by Hilary Gilman

  The drawing room was crowded with the cream of the County, dressed in their finest, chattering and laughing. If they anticipated very little enjoyment to be had from an Elizabethan masque penned by a consumptive schoolboy, they were sure of excellent refreshments and a charming ball to follow. But hardly had the performance begun when ladies began to hush their escorts, leaning forward to catch the poetry, while even the dullest of fox-hunting squires was caught by the charm of the figures moving lightly through the enchanted scene of the Duke’s providing. Whole young trees in tubs, lit by myriad tiny Chinese lanterns, had been placed upon an improvised dais to simulate the Athenian woods. Swathes of raw silk sewn with sequins were draped like cobwebs, and banks of silk flowers provided Titania with her bower. A trio of musicians, brought down from London, who would later play for the ball, provided a drift of sweet sounds.

  Minette, graceful, playful, more beautiful than ever, moved about the little stage with all the assurance of a true actress. But not every member of the audience was as admiring as the young poet, radiant in the joy of seeing his work realised. When she was not engaged in the scene, she was able to covertly study the assembly, and she saw with pain how the Marquise’s mouth took on a bitter twist as she watched, thinking, no doubt, that the upstart twin was stealing glory that should have been Eugénie’s. She scanned the chamber for Franklyn’s face and found him, lounging at the back of the room, an ugly expression lowering upon his countenance. He looked drunk and dangerous. She shivered.

  But nothing could seriously dampen her joy that evening. When the performance was over and the applause finally ceased, she and William and the other performers were surrounded by admirers and basked equally in their praise.

  As had become her habit, she glanced around the room, looking for Rochford. He was talking earnestly to a handsome gentleman with a shock of thick dark curls and a most taking expression of humour and intelligence. He was dressed a little shabbily but wore his shiny coat and frayed cuffs with an air. As she watched, Rochford laid his hand on the gentleman’s elbow and led him towards William, who was flushed and almost painfully excited.

  ‘Mr Hunt, may I present my cousin, Mr William Clareville, to you? William, this is Mr Leigh Hunt, who has come all the way from London to see your play.’

  William struggled to his feet, staggering a little in his eagerness. ‘Sir! This is an honour!’

  Mr Hunt shook the frail hand held out to him but pressed the young poet gently on the shoulder. ‘Do sit, my dear fellow. I hear you have been ill, and I can see you are not quite up to scratch yet.’ He seated himself next to William and said in his droll way, ‘I should be angry with you, you know. As though there were not already enough young geniuses cluttering up London to steal my thunder, here you come with this piece, and I shall have to make room in the next edition of The Indicator for the full text. I shall warn my friends Shelley and Byron to look to their laurels, I can tell you.’

  William’s swallowed, hardly able to believe his ears. To be published in The Indicator was every young writer’s dream. ‘You mean it, Sir?’

  ‘Do you think I am going to allow some other fellow to publish the poem of the year? No, no, I am not such a fool.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘We might look into a professional production, too, you know. Although,’ he broke off and bowed to Minette, ‘it is hard to see how even our beloved Sarah, Siddons you know, could improve on the Duchess’ performance.’

  Minette moved a little away to leave the two poets together. She found Rochford at her elbow and could not forbear to cast him a glowing look. ‘Oh, that was kind! You have made him so very happy.’

  ‘For God’s sake, do not look at me like that, my little love.’ His voice was low and slightly hoarse. ‘How am I to keep up the charade of our estrangement if you do?’

  ‘I wish we could give it up. I am quite tired of it!’ She made a little movement towards him, half-affectionate, half-petulant. ‘Deal with Franklyn; I know you can do it, and I am not afraid of him.’

  ‘He has not had quite enough rope yet to hang himself, but I am hopeful of some decisive act very soon. Then I will have him. But until then, I will not have you put in the slightest danger.’

  ‘Oh, Philip.’ She swayed towards him, lifting her face to his, quite oblivious of all he had been saying. He caught her hand and hastily pulled her through a pair of double doors that stood slightly ajar and into the darkened dining room beyond. He stood for a moment, gazing down into her eyes, which glinted at him through the slits in her mask. Then his hands slid down her bare arms and, catching her wrists, he clasped them together behind her back so that she was strained, helplessly, against him. She gloried in her surrender to the strength of his arms and, with a little sigh, she lowered her eyelids and lifted her mouth. As his lips came down upon hers, he bent her over the long mahogany table, knocking precious crystal and silver out of his way with a careless sweep of his arm. She wound her fingers in his hair and pressed closer, delighting in his warmth and the masculine scent of him. They kissed amidst the broken glass, un-cleared plates, and melting sweetmeats, quite unheeding that Minette’s gown was sticky with syrup and Rochford’s hands were wet with sauce from a tureen he had overturned in his haste.

  Then the spell was broken. Someone tried the door, and an aggrieved voice was heard: ‘Mr Sturridge sez to find the Duke an’ Duchess. Where ‘ave they got to? The dancin’s ready to start.’

  ‘My love, my love, what are we about?’ Rochford released her with a groan. ‘We have guests, and you look—’ He stopped and caught her to him again. ‘You look like a woman who has been making love.’

  ‘And why should I not?’ But she laughed and pulled up the décolletage of her gown, which had most unaccountably slipped to reveal one reddened nipple. ‘I expect you to finish what you have started tonight, Sir.’

  ‘My God, was there ever such a change in a woman?’ He kissed her again. ‘I need no urging, I assure you. When our guests have departed, I shall take you to the cottage and endeavour to satisfy your expectations.’

  She giggled. ‘You always do.’

  He stepped away from her with an effort and looked down at his hands with a rueful smile. ‘I must wash, and then I shall return to our guests. You, I think, will need to change your gown. You look quite bewitching but, also, quite unseemly.’

  ‘And had you nothing to do with that, my lord Duke?’

  He smiled grimly. ‘I had no notion what a handful I had married. Now go before I ravish you here and now!’

  She pouted. ‘I wish you would.’

  She watched him slip through the double doors and then, smoothing her gown and with a hand to her hair, she left the room by the servants’ door. Once in her own chamber she bathed her face with cool water, rearranged her hair and, summoning Becky, donned a fresh ball gown of black satin and sequin-spangled gauze. Then she took a few minutes to sit by the fire in a vain attempt to allow the tumult he had aroused within her to subside. She felt nervous, on edge, yet vibrantly alive. But she could delay no longer. She must make her appearance in the ballroom, or her guests would begin to wonder where she might be.

  As she descended the staircase, a dark figure emerged from the shadows and stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at her. As she watched, he reached up a hand to strip the loo mask from his face, and the candlelight fell upon his ravaged countenance. She stood stricken, a hand to her breast, too terrified to scream. ‘D’Evremont!’ she uttered faintly. ‘No! No! It is not possible.’

  ‘Eugénie, ma bien-aimée.’ He moved into the light with his arms held out, and she realised with a sudden uprush of thankfulness that this was no ghost. He was paper white, pitifully thin, and his hair was peppered with silver, but he was flesh and blood.

  ‘You—you are alive? How—?’

  He stopped, one foot on the lowest stair. ‘I have shocked you. Ma pauvre! Doucement doucement. You must not faint. It is truly I, your Charles, come home to you.’

  ‘Where—oh, wher
e have you been all these months? We thought you drowned.’

  ‘As you see, I was not. When the Pelican was sunk, I was picked up by a corsair galley out of Algiers. I’ve been lashed to a cursed oar with a dozen other wretches ever since, and I have the stripes on my back to show for it. When I finally was able to convince them I had wealth enough to ransom myself, they set me ashore in Marseille.’

  ‘Corsairs? Pirates? In this day and age?’

  ‘Believe me, ma Cherie, it is not “this day and age” on the Barbary Coast.’ He looked at her through narrowed eyes. ‘You do not seem overjoyed to see me.’

  ‘Oh, Charles, you do not understand—’

  He interrupted her. ‘Of course, I understand. You thought me dead. What else could you do but marry as soon as possible? Do not think I blame you for that.’

  ‘No, no that is not—I am not—’

  A door opened, voices were heard, and Charles disappeared into the shadows once more. Minette passed down the staircase and into the ballroom like one in a dream. Charles was alive! Ah Bon Dieu, what a coil was this!

  Twenty-Four

  Minette would have given much for some quiet moments to reflect on how Charles’ return to life would complicate an already appallingly byzantine set of circumstances, but these were denied her. As she entered the ballroom, she was surrounded by admirers and, although she instantly sought Rochford’s beloved face in the crowd, he was dancing with some unknown local Beauty and did not glance in her direction. She understood his motives, but just then she longed for the reassurance of his presence.

  She did her duty, danced with all the gentlemen who begged the honour of leading her out, said just the right things at the right time, and even flirted a little. But she did these things as an automaton, for her mind was turning over and over the incredible news. Charles had returned. Would he claim Eugénie and their child? Would Rochford consent to a divorce? Was there a possible future for her as Rochford’s wife? But no, surely he would not drag his family’s name through the mire just for her. Not when he could have her without. Did he love her enough?

  Rochford must have noticed the strain in her face. She found him beside her, holding a glass of wine in his hand, which he handed to her with a bow. He kept his expression aloof, but his low voice was concerned as he said, ‘Has something happened to distress you? You are very pale.’

  She took the glass and sipped the smooth, ruby liquor gratefully. ‘It has been a very long day,’ she acknowledged.

  ‘Perhaps you should go to bed, alone, tonight.’ He laid his hand fleetingly upon hers. ‘I shall not trouble you.’

  ‘Trouble me?’ She laughed shakily. ‘The thought of being with you tonight is all that has supported me through this endless evening.’

  Whatever words of love he would have spoken in answer to this very welcome response were cut off by the appearance of Lady Talgarth, who approached them now with an air of resolution. Rochford bowed when she stood before him and raised an enquiring eyebrow.

  ‘Oh, Philip, do not look at me so! I came to thank you, to thank you on my knees, for what you have done for my William. I have never seen him so—so deliriously happy.’

  The Duke’s face softened. ‘I am glad.’

  ‘Mr Hunt has told me all. That you have engaged to put up a sum for the production of the play and to have it published in book form after it has appeared in The Indicator.’ Her lips trembled, and her smile went awry. ‘If—if the worst should happen—at least he has known this joy. I know I shall not see him married, or the father of his own son, but—’ She could not finish, her voice was wholly suspended.

  Rochford took her hand gently and patted it. ‘Do not despair. We must hope, and believe, that in Rome he will grow strong and healthy.’

  ‘I pray for it every night, but when I remember how my beloved Henry died in my arms, I cannot bring myself to believe it.’

  Rochford was silent for a moment, and then he said, ‘You are a courageous woman, and I have come to see I have made your burdens heavier for you by my bitterness and resentment. I know, even knew at the time, that you did not love me.’

  ‘I cared for you deeply as a friend, as a brother.’ She laid a hand on his arm and said earnestly, ‘You do believe me now, that it was not your face that—that—’

  He covered her hand with his. ‘I do believe because I have come to understand that there is a kind of love that only grows stronger with adversity. You bore Henry such a love, and I no longer begrudge it to him, poor fellow.’

  She smiled at him, and it seemed as though some great weight had lifted from her. ‘I think that now you have found that love, and I am so very thankful to see it.’ She lightly embraced Minette and kissed her cheek. ‘My dear, you have brought him back from that wilderness in which he wandered for so many years. Be good to him.’

  There were tears on Minette’s lashes as she returned the embrace. ‘I will.’ Silently, she added to herself: If he still wants me after I have told him the truth. It must be tonight!

  It was past three in the morning when the last of the guests had departed and the household prepared to retire for what was left of the night. During the last dance, Rochford had whispered an instruction in her ear that sent a thrill through her. As soon as all was dark in the house, she was to wrap herself in a warm cloak and meet him at the stables. She stole out of the house and ran with eager steps to meet him. He was already astride the big bay and, as she appeared, he dug in his heels, cantered toward her, and scooped her up with one arm, settling her in the saddle before him.

  She turned in his arms, drew his head down to hers, and kissed him with an abandon that startled them both.

  ‘My sweet, do not think I am not appreciative, but do you know that you are trembling?’

  ‘It is just the cold.’

  ‘We shall soon be warm enough.’

  He wrapped her more closely in his cloak, and she laid her head against his chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart. If only this moment might never end! Would he still want her when he knew the truth? Or would her lovely fairy-tale come to an end this night?

  The big horse’s easy strides ate up the ground between the Castle and the cottage. The ride she wished to last a lifetime was over in less than ten minutes, and Rochford was lifting her down from the saddle. Enclosing her in one arm, he hurried her to the door, feeling in the pocket of his greatcoat for the key. ‘That’s odd!’

  ‘What is, my love?’

  ‘The key. I swear I put it in my pocket after our last visit. It must have fallen out.’

  ‘What shall we do?’

  He laughed down into her upturned face. ‘You do not think I would let a little thing like a locked door keep us from our tryst.’ He prepared to put his shoulder to the door, but Minette said, ‘I do not think it is locked.’ She reached out her hand and lifted the latch. The door swung open. ‘We must have forgotten to secure it properly after the last time.’

  He picked her up in his arms and carried her over the threshold. ‘I cannot think why.’

  It was as cold in the little cottage as outside in the night air. Rochford laid her gently upon a low divan banked with cushions, covered her in a fur rug, kissed her, and turned away to attend to the fire. The logs were set upon the iron dogs and quickly flared into a hot blaze. Then he went back out into the night and she heard him settling Genghis into the improvised stable beside the cottage.

  Philip returned to her and took one of her hands in his. ‘You are freezing.’

  She shook her head. ‘I have often noticed one feels cold when one is tired.’

  ‘We shall rest quietly until you are warm and tranquil. We have all the time in the world.’ He held her against him until the little room was comfortable and, then, with gentle hands, he divested her of her cloak and neatly as any lady’s maid unhooked the bodice of her gown. She leant back against him with a sigh and lifted her arms obediently as he drew the flimsy fabric over her head. He smoothed the silken stocking
s down to her ankles and, with care, eased them over her toes and laid them neatly upon her discarded gown. Next came her corset and shift, each removed without haste but with a skill that spoke of considerable practice.

  Then, slowly and with restraint, he began his assault upon her senses. She was scooped up in his arms and carried to the cushions in front of the, now blazing, fire. They lay facing each other, touching, caressing, her hands stroking his thighs, and flat stomach, his cupping her breasts and teasing her hard, pink nipples with his thumbs. He drew her hand between his legs, and she caressed him, purring like the little cat she resembled, when her touch drew deep shuddering groans from him. Then he knelt between her legs and raised her hips, shrugging her legs about his neck. He bent his head and pressed his face into the hollow between her breasts while his hands smoothed her bottom over and over. She lifted her hips impatiently, urgent to be entered by him but, instead, he found the centre of her pleasure and caressed the place, watching her intently as the tiny movement of his fingertips drove her into a frenzy of flailing limbs. Suddenly, she stilled, flung her arms above her head, and arched her back; every nerve in her body concentrated on that one vital point. Then, just as the waves began to break over her, he turned her upon her belly, spread her legs apart, and drove himself inside her. Almost immediately, she cried out in joy as her throbbing flesh encompassed him. It seemed to go on for long moments in an ecstasy that was close to agony.

  She could feel him, still hard inside her and rejoiced that she could so arouse his senses. He lifted himself from her and she half-turned, her smile glinting at him over her shoulder.

  ‘What more, Monsieur le Duc?’

  ‘Little glutton,’ he said, amused. ‘Have you no shame, Duchess?’

  ‘None when I am with you.’

  He laughed and pulled her roughly to her feet. They stood for long moments, their perfect bodies bathed in the soft radiance of the fire’s glow, hands clasped, mouth locked to mouth. Then he lifted her so that she was half-leaning, half-seated against the high back of an priceless Chinese sofa. Fearful of falling, Minette pressed her face into the hair of his chest, and wrapped her legs around his waist. ‘Do not be afraid, my darling,’ he murmured, sliding his hands down her back until he cupped her bottom in his palms. ‘I shall not let you fall.’ He lifted her, supporting her weight until her hips were level with his and then she slid forward taking him within her with a little sigh of content. He held her so for long moments and then, unhurriedly, he rocked her back and forth, his body fitting each of her curves so closely that she understood for the first time that two could become one in a union so perfect that their very consciousness was melded. As they moved together, his mouth covered the slender column of her neck and her darkened nipples with leisurely kisses. Then all at once, as her breathing quickened, she felt his restraint snap, and she was flung roughly upon her back. Catching her ankles in a grip that bruised her, he spread wide her legs and then plunged into her with uncontrolled urgency. She raised her hands to grip his shoulders, lifting herself to deepen his penetration of her body. Her hips rose to meet his in a rhythm as satisfying to her as to him and, when at last he fell against her breast, his groan of satiety went unheard amid her cries.