by Ingrid Hahn
Then again, every once in a while, a woman came along looking for a challenge.
“Pardon me—”
She jumped back at least a foot, hands thrust behind her back as if guilty of an act more insidious than spying.
Seeming to remember herself, she relaxed, drawing her neck long, her chin level. Only the slightest slice of light from the finger’s width gap along the edge of the curtain, but it fell precisely along her shoulder and upper chest in a way that highlighted a slight hint of curving clavicle. Not a sorry sight, to be sure. Rather lovely, actually.
But no jewels adorned her person. Not even a fashionably simple chain about her throat.
Curious.
“Forgive me, sir, but I’m not looking for company.”
Sir?
Oh, yes. The mask. She probably recognized him, but everyone knew the rules. Feigning ignorance of identity was part of the conceit.
Unfortunately, in this instance, the conceit was working rather better than intended. He didn’t recognize her.
“If you’re waiting for your lover, you’ll have to go elsewhere.”
“I’m not here to tryst, sir. I was only—” She gestured to the curtain, pointing with one slender finger. “—looking for someone.”
The lilt of her voice…it wasn’t much, but it was enough to awaken a memory—a terribly foggy memory—at the very back of his mind.
Devil take it, he knew her. Had to. Not a single invitation was issued to a stranger. They’d had to have had at least some acquaintance, however nominal. Why couldn’t he place her?
“You’ll have to look elsewhere.”
Confound it, but her starchy reply made him want to smile. She was so cool and confident, so self-assured and steady.
“You weren’t here when I arrived. By rights, I believe that means the gallery is mine for the time being.”
She sounded sober, which was enough to distinguish her from the rest. Even a few of the footmen allowed to work the ball took the very great liberty of a few clandestine indulgences, something for which Harland couldn’t be bothered to fault the poor men.
“I beg your pardon, but—” Names weren’t supposed to be mentioned. That was one of the most sacred rules of the ball. He might want to ask if he did indeed know her…
Usually, Harland knew everyone on sight, despite the masks. He did have full control over the guest list, after all.
“What was that, sir?”
Of course he had to know this woman. Something about her tugged at the back of his mind.
Something else about her drew out an impulsive offer. “Might you wish to dance?”
“I’m afraid I’m not here to dance tonight.”
“You must have at least one, madam. Why else would you be here, but for a pleasant diversion?”
“Rest assured on that score—I am nothing if not diverted. But I really ought to—”
“You’re looking for someone. Yes, I realize.” Harland swept her onto his arm. He rested his gloved hand over hers, engulfing the smaller with his much larger, and began leading her down to the ballroom floor. “Searching for him—”
“How do you know it’s a him?”
“Of course it’s a him. And searching for him from above is a fine idea, but putting yourself in the thick of things gives you both the opportunity to recognize each other, wouldn’t you think, madam? Or is it miss?” It wouldn’t be miss, though there wasn’t a ring upon her finger. Rings came off. More to the point, though, was the fact of the type of person who came to the Harland Ball. No mere miss would dare step within these walls. Not if she had any hope whatsoever of maintaining any kind of decent reputation.
But that could only mean… An unaccountable twist of jealousy rose up in him at the thought that she might belong to another.
“Are you allowed to ask?”
“Answer my question and you may ask one of your own. Anything you like, I assure you.” She smelled of…feminine things. Pleasingly feminine things. The kind that silently urged him to lean closer to inhale.
Or better yet, taste.
They came to the main sweep of steps and began to descend.
“That would be well and good, were I in possession of any such questions. Alas, I am not.”
“See through me, do you?” Outwardly he tried to sound light. Inwardly, he cursed. More proof that she recognized him. This had never happened before—this strange inversion. Quick recognition was one of his strengths. It was a point of pride, in fact, keeping names and faces carefully stored in his mind.
“On the contrary.”
“But not curious?” Was she toying with him? If so, it was working.
“There are some places too terrifying to think of treading.”
A laugh flew from Harland before he could help himself. Oh yes, this woman knew him, right enough. “You have me at a disadvantage, you know. Enjoy it.”
Coming to the ground level of the house, they turned together in the main entrance hall and worked their way towards the ballroom. People were strewn about everywhere—all of them upright, which, for the evening, counted as gratifying. Given the hour, if nobody were passed out on the floor, at least not in a public space, this year’s ball was already better than last year’s.
A strange sensation surfaced. Being with the woman on his arm made the ball better than any previous ball going back at least as far as his grandfather’s time.
But surely that was going too far. She was a diversion. The curiosity born of an idle moment, no more.
She was looking for another man, after all. The best he could hope was that the rival—who was no rival really, not in any real sense—wouldn’t be pleased to see her. And if he, Harland, hoped for such a thing, that would make him the sort of ass to whom he’d want to deliver a swift kick. Right in the ass, in point of fact. He smiled. What pleasing symmetry.
A few people sent them lingering glances. More than anticipated, in fact. Were they gawking at him appearing with a lady on his arm, or were they wondering about her as he did?
At the edge of the ballroom, he paused. “Take a good look about. Any sign of him?”
It was a harrowingly long wait while she combed her gaze through the crowds with subtle care. She sunk a little, almost imperceptively, mouth going tight, and gave her head a small shake.
That was too bad. So long as she didn’t find the man she sought, she’d still hold out hope to find him, which would keep her attention elsewhere instead of with him.
“May I still have this dance?” Harland felt stiff and awkward, as if there were more riding on her response than there ought to have been. It was dashed uncomfortable.
“I suppose I can’t say no now.”
“You think me some sort of monster who has only one way—his own?”
“What?” Her pretty little mouth turned down at the corners. “No. Of course not.”
“Then you have no idea how terribly irking that response is, do you?”
“You’ll have to explain yourself, I’m afraid.”
“If you’re dancing with me only out of a sense of some duty to what you consider the proper mode of behavior, I’ll have none of it and leave you to your evening this instant.”
The mask hiding the top half of her face did nothing to disguise the sharp look she cast upon him. “Ah. I see. Yes.” She raised her chin to a lofty height. “I’ll dance with you because I want to, sir. Gratified?” Her tone was mischievous, as if he called upon her to spar with him, she’d unsheathe a foil from somewhere in the gauzy waves of her silk gown and put him en garde.
“Terribly.” He spoke with crackling dryness while inside smiling at his victory.
People parted for them as they stepped out onto the floor. The music would be starting again momentarily. He led her into position as the first couple of the set. When the opening measures played out over the room, he bowed.
3
Good Lord. Was she, Abigail Sutton, daughter of a gamekeeper and companion to Mrs. Gordon, d
ancing with the Marquess of Harland?
He didn’t recognize her. Of course not. Why would he have?
It lent a delicious freedom. With the mask, she was made bold. She should never speak to a man of such stature as the marquess, much less take a position opposite him in a dance set.
Yet here she was. He bowed and she responded with the most elegant curtsy she could, aware that the movement was little more than trying to emulate what she’d observed of her betters. If she hadn’t been raised as an unconventional playmate to the daughter of the manor house that employed her father, she’d never have had the opportunity to study under a dancing master—by way of standing in as a practice partner to her friend, more often in the male role than not—and this moment wouldn’t have been possible.
For so infamous a ball, the dance could almost have been respectable.
Almost.
She was supposed to be looking for Edward. What was she doing dancing? She could have refused—not that the marquess had given her much of a choice initially, but he certainly had most pointedly done so before leading her across the floor.
An irreverent part of her hadn’t been able to say no. It’d been like he’d issued a challenge, and when he had, she’d risen up ready to prove herself worthy.
Worthy to whom? Of what? What did she have to prove? Abigail already knew herself worthy of Edward. That was enough. She didn’t need more. She didn’t want more.
Yet when her palm pressed into the marquess’s and they looked at each other treading around in a circle for the dance—her looking up at him, him looking down at her, captured by their unbroken stare—the rest of the world faded to insignificance. The color of his eyes behind the mask was indeterminate, but the distant memory from long, long ago of their malachite depths flew into her mind from nowhere. The cut of his nose was long and straight, echoing its male power along the square precision of his jaw.
Oh, he was something to see, surely. Quite remarkable as far as male physicality went.
But his allure went deeper. Far deeper. He possessed a certain quality—an ineffable quality that compelled Abigail closer, made her want to be near him.
It wasn’t right. She was here for Edward. It was Edward she wanted. Edward with whom she could have a happy future.
The marquess—what could she be to him? Little more than an object of temporary amusement?
The idea should have repulsed her. It should have driven her from the floor, heedless to whether or not she made a scene. She was nothing to these people. They were nothing to her.
Leaving the arms of the marquess, though…it was far too great an obstacle to overcome.
It was just one dance. It didn’t mean anything.
Her hand met his. Warmth bloomed in her belly at the touch. So simple. So right. And not remotely similar to anything she’d ever experienced with Edward, even that once when she’d allowed him the liberty of a kiss.
The marquess was an entirely different man. This was an entirely different night. It couldn’t mean anything, this new and strange sort of longing that wanted to bring her closer to a stranger.
Except it did. In the war playing out within her, the wrong man was winning.
Then the dance steps brought them to pass beside each other and their bodies brushed together. Abigail shivered, warming in places she didn’t dare name, impressing the sensations upon her brain.
Too soon it was over and he was leading her through masses of people. A bittersweet realization surfaced that the memory of the dance would have to last a lifetime. Her heart dipped dangerously low, like it’d been replaced by a leaden ball that she hadn’t the internal buoyancy to support.
“You haven’t sighted him, have you?”
She faced the marquess. They were alone. He’d brought her into the lower gallery flanking the ballroom, deep into the shadows against the windows where condensation clung to the clear panes. Somewhere along the way, he’d picked up a small crystal of lemonade, which he pressed into her hand with a murmured warning about the dangers of becoming overheated.
“Sighted him?”
She sipped the cool drink, which hadn’t been over-sweetened and lingered tart on her tongue. “Oh. Yes. I mean no—no, I didn’t see anything of him.”
“What does he look like?”
“What?”
“So I can help you.”
“Oh.” What did Edward look like? Precisely the question she didn’t want asked. Abigail hesitated. Lord, it hadn’t been quite so long as that. She should have been able to picture him effortlessly. Wasn’t he her heart’s desire? “Fair hair. Brown eyes. A rather pleasant looking fellow.” Far less imposing than the marquess, with his soaring height and the inky blackness of his locks.
The ball went on. The lemonade disappeared. The number of guests in the room thinned. It seemed a more and more hopeless business.
The marquess waited with her.
“You don’t have to stay, sir.” Abigail’s well-schooled tongue fought to rebel, trying to say my lord each and every time.
“It’ll be dawn in a few hours, madam.”
What? Abigail started, turning to the window, but all that was there was her own reflection mottled with the droplets—and the marquess towering behind her like he’d been heaven-sent to guard her through the night.
There weren’t so many people left in the room that she could have overlooked Edward among them.
Abigail looked away. “Apparently I wished upon the wrong star.”
“I’m sorry?”
She turned to the marquess, head low, unable to meet his eye. “I’d best be going.”
“Let me see you out. I’ll have your carriage called—”
“No. Please.”
She must leave without drawing attention to what she’d done. Going out the back to retrieve her things wouldn’t be possible. She’d have to go around the house for the second time tonight.
“What sort of host would I be if—” He bit hard into his lower lip.
She ignored his slip. “Don’t mistake me. You’ve been very kind—and when I’ve imposed upon you so terribly. The dance was…” …was what would set her heart alight each and every time she replayed the memory for the entire remainder of her life.
What could she say that would be enough? Only one thing might hope to approach expressing the depths of her feeling. “Thank you.”
She was leaving—walking away from him this very moment, her hair catching the light as she made her way through the crush.
How would he find her again? Fact was, he wasn’t going to be able to.
Unless…
Harland couldn’t let her go. He couldn’t. Too much unfinished business remained between them. Maybe he could live the rest of his life without knowing her name or where she’d come from, but without having taken the chance for a kiss?
It was like his heart was being placed into a box to be put away and forgotten.
She wouldn’t turn back for one last look. She was walking out of his life without a backward glance, so why should he—
But then she did. She paused. Their eyes met, one of the paste gems of her mask catching the candlelight and throwing off a glint. Her lips parted.
He very nearly whispered for her to come back.
She turned again and continued on her way.
Harland motioned to a footman and spoke low. “That woman there wearing no jewels with the Titian hair and the—” The gown that appeared to have been woven from strands of starlight.
Devil take him, but if he started talking like that to the servants—to anyone—he’d be locked away in a madhouse. “—that, er, shimmering silk gown, a color between—” Between ice and celadon. “—between light blue and light green?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Report back to me whose carriage she calls.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Harland had but one duty left as a host: Calling an end to the ball.
Traditionally, this wasn’t done until
first light. There were murmurs of surprise when he did so now. But once he’d spoken, there was nothing for it. The ball was over.
Waiting, he kept out of the way, pacing slowly about in an idle manner. Crammed with people, the room seemed small. When it was empty, it became obvious how absurdly sized it was for a space used so seldom.
The musicians on the balcony packed their instruments. Footmen began to clean the various detritus strewn about the room.
The marquess came upon a servant collapsed in a chair, his upper body sprawled over the table beside him, arm precariously close to abandoned crystal glasses and goblets of various sizes, mouth open.
Harland touched the boy’s shoulder. The boy jumped awake with a snort, blinking rapidly as if trying to regain his bearings. Catching sight of who stood before him, the footman leapt to his feet, his tongue tripping over itself to manage an apology.
“It’s all right, lad. Davies, is it?” Harland gestured to him. “See yourself off to bed. If you’ve any trouble from Mr. Webb about it, send him to me.”
“Thank you, my lord, but I couldn’t. Not when everyone else—”
“I’ll be dismissing them to their beds momentarily. You’ve all worked hard and the cleaning can wait a few days, I’m sure. It’s Christmas.”
In the name of the servants tasked with serving at the Harland Christmas Eve Night of Debauchery—er, Ball, rather—he should call a halt to the whole business next year. What an absurd tradition. Why had he clung to upholding it for so long? He was the marquess—had been for years. If that didn’t grant certain freedoms and privileges, what would?
Davies saw himself off. The footman charged with following the masked woman appeared at the other side of the room and began heading for the marquess.
Harland’s lungs squeezed in anticipation. If he didn’t want to know her identity, he had to speak and speak now before the servant did. The right thing to do would be to let her go. For what would he do if he found her? Chances were, they wouldn’t suit. He wasn’t on the market for a…
His insides clenched involuntarily as he came dangerously close to thinking of that frightful “w” word.
