Timeless Regency Collection: Autumn Masquerade

by Josi S. Kilpack

  Hannah’s mouth fell open slightly. She’d never in her life been paid such a lovely compliment. It took putting on a mask to earn such a rare gift. Yet surely only a practiced flirt would say such a thing. “You are kind to say so, but I suspect you are a smooth-tongued rogue who goes about charming women everywhere.”

  “I assure you, madam, I spoke with perfect sincerity.”

  She might never learn the truth. The mystery of his identity and the meaning of his words sent a thrill racing down her spine. “Then I thank you. And I offer a compliment of my own: you dance beautifully, and I thank you for your skillful guidance.”

  “I am happy to be of service. May I bring you a drink? Lemonade?”

  A gentleman dressed as a pirate, complete with a cutlass at his hip, appeared next to her. “Stand up with me, my lady, I beg you.”

  Hannah paused. That voice seemed familiar. Could it be Mr. Hill? Surely he hadn’t discovered her so quickly.

  The pirate gave her a crooked grin. “Dance with me, or I might be forced to carry you off to my pirate ship.”

  The voice seemed like his, but she couldn’t believe he’d say such a thing... unless the mask tapped into another side of him, as well. Still, it was only a dance. Surely no harm would come from that.

  She carefully lowered her voice to alto tones to protect her identity. “Very well, sir pirate. But as we are a great deal inland, I doubt your ship is accessible this eve.”

  “I’m very resourceful.”

  She glanced back at the Musketeer. “Another time for the lemonade, sir?”

  “As you wish, my goddess.” He bowed grandly.

  The pirate took her hand and led her to the dance floor. He leaned in too closely. “You look beautiful.” The alcohol on his breath burned her eyes.

  She glanced in his direction, trying not to inhale too deeply, and inclined her head. “You’re kind to say so.”

  A quadrille began, and Hannah relaxed; not only did she know this dance well, but partners changed so frequently that there would be little time for conversation. Still, the pirate studied her carefully. She barely glanced at him. If she gave him little notice, he’d see she had no interest in getting better acquainted.

  As they left the dance floor, he leaned in. “Hannah?”

  She turned her head slowly. “Who?”

  “I know it’s you, Hannah.”

  Tempted to shrink from him, she raised her chin. “I hope this Hannah person is either your sister or your wife, sir, or she may not forgive you for using her given name.”

  He took a firm hold of her elbow. “I know it’s you. I told you that I would know you even in costume.”

  “Thank you for the dance.” She wrenched her arm out of his grasp and walked away from him.

  To her relief, other gentlemen less interested in her identity asked her to dance the next few sets, and she lost sight of the pirate. As the evening wore on, her confidence increased. She hadn’t missed a step and conversed easily with everyone she met. Perhaps a mask was all she needed to find her poise. She smiled the whole time, blissfully moving to the music and with other dancers. Who would have believed a secret identity would be so liberating?

  She often spotted the dashing Musketeer, and through the course of the cotillion, she changed partners to dance with him briefly. “We meet again, Monsieur Musketeer.”

  “Are you enjoying your visit among us mere mortals, Aphrodite?” His smile teased, warm and almost intimate without being threatening.

  “Very much. I believe there are a few couples who may need my assistance falling in love, but others seem to be getting along famously without me.”

  He chuckled. “Have you chosen someone for me?”

  “I am not a matchmaker, sir. I merely watch over and help lovers who have already found each other.”

  “Ah, unfortunate. Couldn’t you make an exception for me?”

  “Perhaps.”

  The sequence took them apart and returned them to their partners. At the end, they bowed and she lost sight of him. The pirate appeared across the room, but she moved out of his line of sight. After a lively country dance, Hannah took a moment to catch her breath, and the Musketeer found her again.

  He smiled. “What must I do to win the favor of the goddess of love, that she might help me find a lady?”

  “You pose an interesting problem. I have not yet decided what to do about you.”

  He stepped nearer, a bit more closely than strictly proper. “Am I a problem because you are tempted to match me with yourself?”

  She smiled secretively. “Is that your wish?”

  “At this moment, I wish that more than anything.” The intensity of his eyes almost stripped away her carefully constructed ruse and touched the real woman inside.

  In an attempt to put up her shields lest he cast some kind of spell over her, she tossed her head and laughed. “A lofty goal—to be loved by a goddess.”

  “To be loved by a good woman is a lofty goal, as well.” He gently enfolded her hand in his. “What is your loftiest goal, Aphrodite?”

  For a moment, she could hardly speak. His words touched a place deep in her heart. “I wish more than anything to be loved by a good man.”

  “Dance the supper dance with me; you can determine if I meet your definition of a good man.” He smiled, his tone teasing as if still in the role of a swashbuckling Musketeer, but that intensity in his gaze suggested a deeper meaning. The warmth of his hand bathed her entire body.

  The pirate appeared. He gave the Musketeer a brief once over, pointedly looking at their hands. Holding hands was intimate, bordering on scandalous. She withdrew from the Musketeer’s touch. Even Aphrodite knew boundaries.

  In a clear dismissal of the Musketeer, the pirate turned to Hannah. “The supper dance is next. Stand up with me.” He grabbed her hand.

  The Musketeer stiffened but remained silent, waiting for her to speak. Which was nice, really, since so many men seemed to speak for her.

  She pulled out of his grasp. “I’m afraid I cannot. This gentleman has already asked for the supper dance.”

  “So sorry, good sir.” The Musketeer held out his arm and waited for Hannah to take it.

  The pirate gripped her elbow. “Why are you toying with me?”

  More annoyed than alarmed, Hannah turned her head slowly to make eye contact with him and drew from a cool reserve inside her. “Release me.”

  The pirate looked down as if only now realizing he’d seized her.

  “The lady asked you to release her.” The Musketeer took a step closer to the pirate. “Do so this instant, or I shall be obliged to intervene.”

  The pirate let go of Hannah. With a sullen glance at the Musketeer, the pirate affected a bow and left, listing off to one side as he walked.

  “Cur,” the Musketeer muttered. “Has he been bothering you all night?”

  “He keeps insisting he knows me. He’s harmless.” But her elbow burned where his fingers had dug into her skin.

  “Shall I warn him away?”

  “No, don’t bother. I’m sure he won’t try that again.” Still, Mr. Hill had never been so rough before; he’d always treated her like glass. He might be emboldened by his costume, or by drink.

  The Musketeer’s gaze followed the pirate’s back. “He bears watching.”

  His protectiveness should have been endearing, but all her life, people had tried to manage her. It grew tiresome. Still, the Musketeer was right; Mr. Hill’s behavior suggested he might not be as innocuous as she had believed.

  The beginning notes of the supper dance began, and the Musketeer’s mouth curved. “A waltz. Fortunately there are no patronesses who must be begged for permission.”

  Hannah returned his smile. “A goddess needs no mortal permission.”

  He grinned. “Of course not.” He bowed with a flourish and held out his hand, waiting for her to extend hers.

  The pirate had simply grabbed her, but this man waited for her to give her hand to him. Sh
e placed her hand into his and stepped into dance position with him. He led her with ease borne from practice and inherent skill. Instinctively she matched his subtle clues, and they moved together as if they’d been partners for years.

  His voice wrapped around her with all the warmth of his touch. “There is something very different about you, Aphrodite. You are extremely self-possessed, and you stand apart from the others. It isn’t arrogance or coyness; I can’t pinpoint what it is about you that captures me.”

  How could she resist such beautiful words? It had to be the flattery of a roué, but it sounded sincere. Still, they were in costume. He clearly played a role just as she did. “I’m sure every mortal feels this way about a goddess.”

  “I’m beginning to believe you are a goddess. It’s refreshing to have found a woman who doesn’t want anything from me.”

  “Do women often want things from you?”

  “Usually.” His mouth pulled to the side in a mixture of bitterness and resignation.

  “Does your Musketeer costume come with a name? I feel rather strange that I don’t know what to call you.”

  “You may call me Bennett.”

  He smiled, and her insides took on the consistency of pudding. If she weren’t careful, she would be in danger of losing her heart to this charming stranger.

  Chapter Four

  The goddess in Suttenberg’s arms tilted her head to one side. “Bennett?”

  An uncomfortable heat crawled up to his collar. Why in the world he’d told her to call him by his Christian name, he couldn’t imagine. Not even his mother called him Bennett. Was this a sign of his ancestors’ blood coming to haunt him?

  “Is that your given name or your last name?”

  He gave one of his signature mysterious smiles. “It is a name by which you may call me.”

  “Then I shall assume it is a last name, and not a Christian name, or people would be scandalized.”

  “You’re a goddess; mortals’ opinions shouldn’t matter.”

  The smile she gave him in return suggested a host of secrets.

  “Besides,” he continued, “for all they know, we might be married.”

  “We might be married to other people.” She turned a searching gaze on him, her golden-brown eyes leaving him mildly exposed. “You aren’t, though, are you? Married?”

  “No.”

  “Truly?” For the first time all evening, vulnerability crept into her tone.

  So, the goddess of love wasn’t quite as impenetrable as she’d led him to believe. That crack in her cool, regal perfection warmed him, gave him hope. Strange, but he’d never wondered if a woman desired him; it had always been a safe assumption that women wanted him for something—his money or his title or the status of being seen with him. A few less virtuous women wanted him for more pleasurable, but less honorable reasons. All seemed to have their own agendas.

  “I give you my word, I am not married.” He’d never been so glad to utter those words.

  Her expression took on an intensity he hadn’t seen all evening. “I do not speak to Monsieur Bennett of the French Musketeers. I speak to you, the man behind the mask.”

  He gazed directly into her eyes. “I give you my word as a gentleman, I am not married.” He paused, relishing the almost imperceptible relaxing of her shoulders that suggested she cared. “And you?”

  She smiled and glanced away, suddenly demure. “No.”

  Demure. Odd, she hadn’t exhibited that quality all evening, not even as she’d danced with other partners. Yes, he’d been watching her. Closely. To the point of almost ignoring his other partners. He hoped the casual observer would remain ignorant of his interest in the goddess.

  Unlike other balls, when practically every eligible female and her mother stalked him in attempts to capture a duke, he hadn’t caught her looking at him at all. He should have found a way to hide his identity years ago. Tonight none of his partners stalked him, a refreshing change, but none of them intrigued him like this Aphrodite. He’d danced with many ladies in mask, but she alone occupied his thoughts.

  He led her through the steps, holding her closely. For the first time he agreed that waltzing was, indeed, an extremely intimate dance. Who was the woman behind the mask? What were her secrets?

  He peered at her. “If I cannot ask you any personal questions while you are in the persona of Aphrodite, how can I possibly get to know you—the real you?”

  “You seem resourceful.”

  He huffed his amusement at the polite thwarting that bordered on encouragement. “Very well. Tell me something about yourself that doesn’t reveal your identity, but discloses an aspect of your true self.”

  She tilted her head elegantly to look into his eyes. “Today is my birthday.”

  “Is it?” Too bad he couldn’t give her an appropriate gift. Or a birthday kiss.

  “My favorite color used to be lavender, but after years of mourning, I now detest it. My new favorite color is pink.”

  Before he could express his condolences that she’d been in mourning, she pursed her lips into a tiny pout, so irresistible that he could hardly prevent himself from leaning in and kissing her. Right there. On the dance floor. In front of the entire assembly.

  Her voice refocused his thoughts. “I hate blood pudding. I love the smell of lilacs. I put cream and sugar in my chocolate. I adore strawberries. I have never been outside of England, but I want very much to see all of the British Isles. And France. And maybe Germany someday—I’ve been studying German. And I like Shakespeare’s comedies. I’ve read them all.” She smiled. “Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

  “It’s a start.”

  Her mouth curved deeply, surpassing amusement and traveling into genuine, unrehearsed pleasure. How refreshing not to find a practiced smile. “And you?”

  He thought back, trying to bring forward similar personal details that wouldn’t give away his identity. “I don’t believe I have a favorite color, but I’m partial to both green and blue. I hate bread pudding. I love the smell of books. I put cream and sugar in my coffee. Eating strawberries makes my neck develop red marks and itch. I like Shakespeare’s comedies, too, but I haven’t read them all. I have a desire to see Italy, but I don’t speak Italian. My mother’s mother was German; she insisted I speak German when I conversed with her. I called her Oma. But after she died, I forgot most of the language.”

  Strange, but everyone of his acquaintance, including his family, probably had little to no knowledge of the trivial facts—except the strawberry reaction—that he’d revealed to this mystery woman.

  She grew more fluid in his arms. “It’s a pity you don’t remember the German language. While it sounds harsh to our ears, it is imagery-rich and poetic.” Her smile faded, and her golden-brown gaze fixed on him. “Do you think it improper for women to read and learn?”

  “No, I applaud it. I enjoy reading and learning, and encourage others to do so.”

  Her smile was both relieved and delighted. How charming to find a woman who revealed her emotions instead of playing coy.

  His gaze focused on her lips again, and the desire to kiss her struck with more force than before. He’d certainly seen his share of attractive women, and he’d lost count of the number of them who had offered themselves to him—with various implied stipulations and prices, of course—but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d suffered such acute desire. Artlessly elegant, mysteriously genuine, her contradictory traits fed his fascination.

  The waltz ended, and his arms practically refused to release her. Still, he took himself in hand and stepped away before he carried her off to a dark corner to thoroughly kiss her. He couldn’t do that. He refused to abandon his gentlemanly duty to treat a lady with respect just to satisfy a primal instinct that was quickly getting harder to control, probably thanks to his tainted bloodline.

  As she stepped away, she smiled a genuine display of dazzling joy that nearly knocked him off his feet. “Thank you for the lovely dance. My danc
e master was not nearly so skilled.”

  He studied her more closely, searching for clues to her identity, her age. Though she followed his lead with more grace and skill than most, her comment made him wonder. Her mouth and the lower half of her face suggested youth, but with the upper part of her face and her eye area covered, he could only place her somewhere between sixteen and forty. “That was your first waltz since you came out, wasn’t it?”

  Again that mysterious smile. “My, you are getting personal. I don’t mind telling you that I write with my left hand and that my hair color comes from my mother, but I won’t give you any clues to my age. Besides, a goddess does not come out. If you must know, my dance master was the most skilled dancer who partnered me in the waltz, so I naturally compare all others to him.”

  A pertness touched the angle of her head, and she brushed lovely, long fingers over her gold necklace. The gesture drew attention to that hollow between her collarbone that his mouth ached to kiss.

  She couldn’t be more than thirty. Could she? She said she wasn’t married, but she could be a widow. That would explain her mourning comment. But it might be a parent or a sibling she mourned. Not knowing was about to drive him mad. Yet not knowing filled him with exhilaration.

  He could be patient. He’d enjoy this guessing game until he took off her mask. And kissed her thoroughly. Not necessarily in that order.

  He bowed low and offered his arm. “Supper, I believe, my goddess.”

  She wound her arm around his, an innocent gesture he’d experienced hundreds of times, but tonight it became a sensual experience that sped the current of his blood into something more closely resembling a raging river after a storm. How could he eat in this condition?

  With the intriguing lady at his side, he puffed out his chest as he led her to dinner. As liveried footmen brought dozens of dishes for the first course, he smirked and gestured to a nearby bowl. “I believe it’s blood pudding. Shall I pass it to you?”

  She grimaced. “I’ll be sure to give you an extra helping of strawberries, sir.”