Blast.
Why had she continued to rattle on so vulgarly? She was enjoying the repartee, and beyond that, she was enjoying his company. His combination of intellect, wit, and mystery sent her senses reeling.
Hopefully, she hadn’t upset him beyond repair. Hopefully, he would relax again and find a way to resume conversing. Hopefully—.
“You know, you’ll never catch a husband sitting with me exchanging literary parley.” He tossed his book on the side table next to his chair, then steepled his fingers, elbows resting on the chair arms.
A clear dismissal. Liz laughed self-consciously.
Deflecting, she jested, “Had I realized my plans to avoid the marriage mart were so transparent, I would have disguised my intentions.”
He raised one black eyebrow. “Not a follower of society’s expectations?”
Holding out her hand, she declared, “Miss Trethow, determined spinster and future lady’s companion, at your service.”
Only after the words tumbled out did she feel chagrined by the proclamation. Not that she was interested in him romantically, but did she have to stick her foot in her mouth with every conversation?
Nonplussed, he reached for her hand, grazing her knuckles with soft lips.
“At my service? And how shall you serve me?” His lips curved upwards.
Both touch and words sent gooseflesh down her back.
This man was no gentleman. No gentleman behaved this way. No gentleman spoke so brazenly or touched lips to flesh. Was he a rake? He didn’t look like a rake, but what exactly did a rake look like? She wasn’t altogether sure she’d ever met a rake.
She swallowed, her flushed face belying her affected calmness.
“You haven’t told me your name,” she squeaked, her voice high and strained.
His voice dropped an octave. “Observant of you.”
She waited for him to continue. He didn’t.
Feeling notably awkward, she said at last, “Well, it has been a pleasure.” She stood unsteadily, the unread book in hand. “Not that I expect anyone to come to the library, but it wouldn’t do for us to be found alone and unchaperoned.”
Ridiculous words given she’d stayed for half an hour.
Rising from his chair, he chuckled, the sides of his eyes crinkling. “And here I thought you refused to be a victim of society’s prejudices.”
“What a clever monkey you think you are, Mr. No-Name. It is not for myself that I think, but of my sister. Any sniff of scandal and my sister’s reputation would be at stake.” Lizbeth returned Spenser to his shelf and her glove to her hand, determined to appear confident despite shaky legs. “I will leave first.”
As reluctant as she was to leave, there was truth to her words and impropriety to their situation. She had thrown far too much caution to the wind as it was, enjoying his company more than safeguarding her reputation. She had lied about her sister. It was of herself she thought.
While she didn’t so much care about her reputation, she did care that being found alone with a man could force her into marriage. Not even this man with his wit and mystique could tempt her to sacrifice her independence. Of all her talk of controlling destinies, they both knew some situations were outside either of their power. She’d risked too much already. The more fool her.
As her hand met the door handle, he said, “Miss Trethow.”
When she turned to face him, he bowed reverently. “Call me Roddam.”
“Mr. Roddam. A smart name. It has been a pleasure.” With a nod, she departed.
Sebastian relished for a moment his newfound mistaken identity as a Mr. Roddam. He embraced the anonymity it afforded. Mr. Roddam. What would it be like not to shoulder responsibility, not to be a peer of the realm?
He replaced the collection of essays on its respective bookshelf and waited another half hour in the library to avoid being seen leaving after Miss Trethow.
Her words of Locke echoed in his mind as he waited. A well-read woman but sheltered. What did she know of the hardships of life? She made controlling one’s destiny sound easy, as though life and other people held no consequence. If she had lived but a year in his shoes, she wouldn’t hold to such beliefs. After all he had done to rise from the ashes of his past and build his life into something meaningful, something survivable, it still took every ounce of his willpower to remain sane, all because of what had been done to him, all because of other people.
He should be pleased the conversation had taken such a turn. It served as a reminder that his life overflowed with too much darkness for friendships or romance, not that a woman like her would want to pursue any type of relationship with him once she got to know him. He was no prize.
And yet, he found her enchanting. They had exchanged a more engaging conversation than he’d ever shared with anyone in his life. He admired her boldness to speak her mind regardless of anyone’s impression of her, a trait most men would find unappealing.
He was not most men.
For the length and breadth of their exchange, he had pulsed with awareness of Miss Trethow with her sparkling eyes and Cornish quaintness, the latter of which endeared her to him with every dropped h.
Her large brown eyes hinted at a touch of green when reflecting the fire light. Dark hair with touches of red curled across her forehead with long tresses loosely braided atop her head and threaded with a blue ribbon. If he hazarded a guess, he would say she was mid-twenties, hardly on the shelf, but clearly branded unmarriageable either by her brashness and radical views or by her own choice, perhaps both.
While she had styled herself in the newest fashion of the empire waist with a blue sash and bow below the bosom, she hid bare skin with a modest, lace fichu. He had focused on her face, for he was sure if he looked down at the fichu, he would have found himself wanting to unwrap it. Who could blame him the occasional glance, such as to admire the pearl necklace with its gold and amethyst cameo?
No detail had escaped his notice. He had memorized her.
He couldn’t even remember the last time he had looked at a woman lustfully. Years. Before his inheritance. But her damned outspokenness had him wanting to undress more than her mind.
It hadn’t solely been her words both to incense and entice him. Her eyes had done a fair job on their own. In her eyes he had recognized something he knew all too well. The need for freedom. The desire to jump into a cold sea at midnight and feel the crisp water lap at bare skin. The desire was in her eyes just as in his soul.
To hell with her sheltered beliefs. He wanted to see her again. He needed to see her again. Damn the complications.
Given her declarations of being a determined spinster, she wouldn’t see him as a potential mate. There would be no need for excuses or explanations for why he preferred to remain unmarried, no worries she would attempt to trap him or compromise herself. There would be only two equals desiring the same passion.
Chapter 3
At the end of the week, Lizbeth attended another party, one she had no intention of missing by hiding in a library.
She, her sister Charlotte, her Aunt Hazel, and her cousin Walter ascended the steps to Lady Kissinger’s townhome on this most auspicious evening. Although the dancing wouldn’t start until more guests arrived, music reverberated from the ballroom through the anti-room and out into the foyer. She bit her bottom lip in anticipation.
Preceding them in the queue was a large cucumber, Marie Antoinette, and a mermaid. A faux horse head neighed behind her. Tonight’s ball wasn’t just any ball; it was Lady Kissinger’s fancy-dress ball.
Raising the hooped gown of her Queen Elizabeth costume, Liz followed her troupe into the anti-room, ushered in by the first footman who took their cards. The whalebone of her long-waist corset bit into her rib with each step. Oh, but it was worth it, she thought. Nothing could be more exciting than a fancy-dress ball.
On s
econd thought, seeing Mr. Roddam again would top that excitement.
Her family waited in the receiving line. The hostess, still whinging with the group before them, was dressed as Titania from Midsummer Night’s Dream, complete with fairy wings.
“The Right Honorable Baron Collingwood, The Right Honorable Baroness Collingwood, Miss Lizbeth Trethow, and Miss Charlotte Trethow.” As the footman trumpeted their names, Lady Kissinger, all dangling pearls, glitz, and smiles, stepped forward to greet her guests.
“I keep telling him not to announce names and let me guess who is behind the masks! If he doesn’t cease and desist, I’ll demote him to fifth footman,” Lady Kissinger announced with a laugh.
“Oh, Agnes, darling. You look fabulous,” replied Aunt Hazel disguised as a milkmaid with two buckets strapped to her hips.
“So good of you to say, love.” The hostess glanced at Walter. “Your son is looking more like his father every day. So handsome!”
Walter, dressed as Hamlet, tucked Yorick’s skull behind his back as he took her hand in his.
“And your nieces are living dolls!” she exclaimed. “Queen Elizabeth, and let me guess. No, don’t tell me. Little Red Riding Hood?”
“Yes, my lady.” Charlotte simpered demurely and curtseyed.
Aunt Hazel kissed Lady Kissinger’s cheek before leading the quartet into the ballroom. The faint scent of violets wafted through a room already overflowing with several dozen costumed guests, a few unrecognizable, others merely adorned with a mask and ball attire. Charlotte tucked her hand in the crook of Lizbeth’s arm as they walked into the ballroom and worked their way around the perimeter, greeting familiar faces as they walked.
Sconces lit the space. Strung from one to the other and stretching the length of the ballroom waved feathers and colored fabrics. Chandeliers cast a magical glow on the ceiling mural and illuminated the fresh flowers dangling above the dancefloor. Pink chairs and settees lined the walls, each decorated with a mask and short cape.
“Now then.” Hazel flicked open an ivory-handled fan. “The mission is to secure dance partners post-haste. Look lively.”
“Auntie! Don’t be vulgar.” Charlotte blushed.
“Fiddlesticks. We’re here to see you married, and you can’t very well accomplish that without dance partners.” Hazel looked knowingly at Lizbeth.
Before Hazel could press the issue, a gaggle of girls approached Charlotte for gossip and costume comparisons.
“Mother, I see some of the fellows,” interrupted Walter. “Do you mind if I join them?”
“Go, but don’t neglect the ladies. If I see you sitting out a single set, I’ll have you walk home to Devon after the Season.”
Rolling his eyes, Walter headed in the direction of a chubby Louis XVI, a tall figure in a domino, a knight in rusty armor, and a Paul Revere with a tourney horse.
As per usual, Lizbeth stood alone with her aunt, a wallflower. It was just as well since she had no desire to gossip with the ladies or flirt with the men. All she wanted from the evening was another conversation with Mr. Roddam, but she groaned inwardly to realize she may not recognize him if he wore a full costume with mask, assuming he attended. Unless he approached her or failed to wear a mask, she would be at a loss.
She kept her eyes trained on the double entry doors, watching each newcomer for broad shoulders and tall height. She wasn’t even sure why she hoped to see him again. They had met only briefly, and she remembered doing most of the talking, giving him the impression she was the worst sort of bluestocking.
But there was something about him that made her feel he understood her, something that set him apart from other men. She couldn’t help but suspect she had stumbled on a hidden gem. If he were to speak to any other woman as he had spoken to her, he would undoubtedly offend their tender sensibilities. Women might also find him less than attractive given his bearing was uncommon to the typically sought-after man.
And yet she found him titillating.
He struck her as a man who wouldn’t be afraid to dirty his fingernails, who thirsted for knowledge and loved a challenge, who, above all else, communicated with her.
One of her aversions to marriage was being bound to a man who wouldn’t communicate, who would visit her only in the evenings and ignore her otherwise. Such a man would strip her of her identity, leaving in its wake a mindless possession. Her closest childhood friends had succumbed to marriages of so-called convenience, relinquishing their dreams to be supported by the shadow of a man.
After only one meeting, Lizbeth suspected Mr. Roddam to be of a different ilk, to be like her. A communicator, a reader, a passionate lover of knowledge and nature.
Distracted by her thoughts, she almost missed the man standing at the ballroom’s double doors, his back to her. The sight of long, dark hair held by a purple ribbon caught her attention. She craned her neck for a better view.
“Has someone caught your fancy?” Aunt Hazel pressed, poking Liz in the arm with her fan. “Which one is he?”
The man turned to face the room. Small nose and beady eyes. Not Mr. Roddam after all.
“No one in particular, Auntie. Just admiring costumes. Have you seen the leprechaun flinging bits of gold paper?” She laughed a tad too heartily.
With narrowed eyes and pursed lips, Hazel said, “I must insist you put this spinster nonsense to rest. Your father tells me you’re even considering employment as a lady’s companion. Of all the absurdities. It’s time you reconsidered a union with Walter. Our plans were interrupted when the baron passed, but it’s been three years, Lizbeth. It’s time.”
“Oh, Aunt Hazel. Not again,” Liz replied, exasperated.
“I would feel much better if the two of you came to an agreement before the end of the Season. With your father’s property entailed to Walter, it is a sensible match.” Lowering her voice, she added, “He needs you. He’s been listless ever since his father’s death, and I believe it’s because he’s still grieving. A wife is what he needs. I’ll never forget how instrumental you were in helping your father through the death of Elizabeth. You could do the same for Walter. I worry about him—and about you!”
Liz loved Walter as a cousin, but nothing more. Even if she did feel more towards him than friendship, she couldn’t be an emotional caregiver, not again, not after the last time. She’d nearly lost herself in the process.
“Walter and I move in different circles. We would never suit. Don’t you want him to marry for love?” Liz smiled sweetly against the acrid taste in her mouth.
“Of course, I want him to marry for love, but who wouldn’t fall in love with you if you gave a man half a chance?”
The dance floor cleared of milling guests, then, distracting her aunt from the conversation. All eyes turned to Robin Hood and Maid Marianne as they stepped out to lead the first dance, a lively cotillion. Other dancers joined the couple. The violins struck the opening notes, and as the dancers clasped hands, those standing about the room clapped in time to cheer the couples.
Liz looked to her aunt in surprise when Hazel huffed and harrumphed rather than joining in the festive atmosphere.
“Why is Charlotte not dancing?” Hazel sniffed. “Who is she with? Who is that man?” Pulling her lorgnette from a bucket, Hazel squinted at a scrawny, costumed Captain Nelson who had replaced the group of girls Charlotte had been with minutes before. “Good heavens. That’s Mr. Crawley. A wastrel of a man with no good connections. She’ll not find a husband standing about gabbing with the likes of him.”
Tutting, Lizbeth said, “Dereliction of duties, Auntie, if you don’t see to her rescue.”
Returning her lorgnette to the bucket, Hazel pushed past Liz to intercede.
Relieved to be free of the matchmaking schemes, Lizbeth turned towards one of the balconies. From there, she could escape the madness without losing her view of the room. This marked a bright point in the e
vening, as her aunt’s distraction with Charlotte would enable Liz to remain undisturbed by well-intentioned dance partners. Praise be to small favors.
For a full set of dances, she managed to remain out of sight and mind. She was far happier half-hidden behind the curtains, unnoticed and undisturbed.
And then her cousin reappeared.
Cringing, she suspected he would have at his side one of the dreaded dance partners.
“There you are, Lizbeth!” Walter stepped onto the balcony, all smiles and flushed cheeks. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you. Why the deuce are you hiding out here? Well, no matter. I want to introduce you to someone special.” Leaning towards her, he said sotto voce, “He’s been champing at the bit for an introduction, Lizzie, and let me be the first to say, well done. Quite the conquest.”
Walter waved over the masked man in the domino. A swirl of black cloak advanced. A tricorn covered the man’s hair, and a gold mask disguised his face.
Lizbeth’s heart skipped a beat.
Walter said, “May I introduce to you my cousin, Miss Trethow?”
The masked stranger bowed Liz in her Queen Elizabeth costume and said huskily, “Your Majesty.”
“Lizbeth, this is the Duke of Annick,” Walter enunciated.
Liz curtsied, her heart in her throat. “Your Grace.”
The stranger in the library had introduced himself as Roddam, not Annick, and certainly not as a duke. But the resemblance even in costume was unmistakable. Broad shoulders, tall height, deep voice, and northern accent, albeit muffled by the mask. And he had sought out an introduction. Who else could it be aside from her Mr. Mystery?
She felt faint.
How perfectly ridiculous. He was only a man. And a rude man to boot. A man who lied about his name, no less. Roddam could be his surname, she supposed.
Her knees knocked beneath her gown.
“I hope we may become more intimately acquainted over the next hour.” The duke took her hand in his and kissed the air above it in an overly dramatized motion. “Call me Annick.”
The Earl and The Enchantress (An Enchantress Novel Book 1) Page 2
