Timeless Regency Collection: Autumn Masquerade

by Josi S. Kilpack

  He shivered exaggeratedly. “Greek mythology should have taught me never to anger a god, or in this case, a goddess.”

  “Anger, no, but tease gently? Perhaps. I suppose men cannot help themselves. My brother certainly took great delight in teasing me.”

  “Older or younger brother?”

  Her smile dimmed. “Older.”

  Very gently, he asked, “The reason you wore mourning and then half mourning long enough to dislike lavender?”

  She nodded and sipped her wine, not meeting his gaze.

  “I’m very sorry.”

  She stirred her soup, staring into it as if her appetite had fled. “Thank you.”

  So, she wasn’t a widow. The knowledge shouldn’t please him so much. He changed the subject to bring back her smile. “You said you like the smell of lilacs; do you prefer them over roses?”

  Her mouth curved upward a little. “For smell? Yes. For pure beauty? Hmm. Roses look and smell lovely, as do camellias, but lilacs have more character. And roses are given so often they’ve become cliché.”

  “Noted.”

  She smiled as if he’d passed some kind of test. “Do you believe ladies are too fragile to do anything more than lift a teacup?”

  He blinked, trying to find a direction she might be headed. He finally settled with honesty. “No, I believe ladies, at least some ladies, have strength most men underappreciate. But if a gentleman is taking proper care of her, she shouldn’t have to do anything strenuous. However, according to my mother, childbirth was assigned to women because the Almighty knew men weren’t strong enough to handle it. She says men have no tolerance for pain and turn into great babies.”

  She laughed softly. “An interesting point of view.”

  “It’s true. I cry real tears when I get a hangnail,” he jested.

  A full-bodied, husky laugh burst out of her. He stared, amazed at the rich, sultry sound. A few men nearby turned their heads. She pressed her lips together, shaking her head, and took another bite of soup.

  “I like to go for long walks,” she said. “Some people of my acquaintance feel I’m too delicate to walk.”

  “Because you are so petite?”

  “I was frequently ill as a child. But seldom now. Still, everyone watches me as if I’ll break. Sometimes I go for long walks when they think I’m napping. I feel alive when I walk.”

  “I like to walk, too. I also love to ride.”

  Her expression clouded over. “I don’t like to ride.”

  “No?”

  “Horses frighten me—perhaps another reason I’m treated as if I’m made of glass.”

  Her confessions evoked a protective instinct inside. He pictured himself accompanying her on her rambles, listening to the husky sweetness of her voice, watching the sunlight glisten in her hair. Was she wearing a wig or was all that hers? She had said her hair color came from her mother, but was what he saw real? He studied the top of her golden head but could not be certain if it were genuine or an expertly crafted wig.

  “I promise not to treat you as if you are made of glass.” He looked into her soft brown eyes.

  Hmm. Brown eyes and blond hair was an unusual combination. Still, his steward was colored thusly, so the possibility existed that she was a true blond. Had he met any blond, brown-eyed ladies recently?

  The corners of her mouth lifted. “I would very much appreciate you treating me like a person and not a glass ornament.”

  They fell silent as the servants took away the first course and brought the second. He sifted through everything she’d told him, looking for clues as to her name. Clearly he hadn’t learned enough about her.

  “You mentioned not liking horses; did you never learn to ride, then?”

  She shook her head slightly. “I haven’t tried in years. I’m so nervous that the horses always get jittery.”

  “They can sense it.”

  “I doubt anything frightens you.”

  He paused. “Dark water. I dislike swimming in water so murky that I can’t see the bottom. I have an irrational fear that a monster will swim up from the depths, grab me, and drag me under. Childish, isn’t it?”

  “No, not childish; it suggests a good imagination.” She lowered her voice. “I can swim. My mother said it was an unladylike activity. When we went to the seashore, we used bathing machines, but sometimes my friends and I snuck out and swam freely. It was glorious.”

  He chuckled at the rebellious gleam in her eye. Would she trust him with such information if they were unmasked? Probably not. He’d certainly never told others much of what he had revealed to her. Was it their masks or something about her that encouraged him to disclose personal details? Perhaps it was that sense of home that enfolded him in its embrace in her presence.

  He steered the conversation to other topics. He tossed out casual comments about national events, and her views on social reform, the poor, the roles of landowners, and other subjects he didn’t normally discuss with ladies. She met him head on with thoughtful, intelligent replies. When she didn’t have an answer, she simply stated she’d have to do some more reading on the matter before she could comment.

  He quirked a brow. “Do you like the smell of books?”

  “Love it. A library is always my favorite room in a house.”

  Convinced she was quite possibly the most perfect woman he’d ever met, he probed further, discovering a thoughtful, insightful lady who surprised him on every level. He was tempted to fall down on his knees and beg her that moment to marry him.

  How quickly could he obtain a special license?

  No, he couldn’t spring such a life-changing question on her. She deserved to know him better. But surely she’d be pleased to marry the Duke of Suttenberg. Wouldn’t she? He’d never worried if a lady would accept his proposal as a duke, but now that he’d met one who didn’t know of his title, he had to win her on his own merit. Was it enough? An uncharacteristic uncertainty edged into his confidence. This was his chance to learn if he, Bennett, the man, deserved the love of a woman like his Aphrodite.

  “You’re thinking very hard, Bennett.”

  His Christian name spoken in her voice sent a ripple of awareness over him. “I am.”

  “About?”

  “I’m not ready to tell you just yet.”

  After dessert was served and consumed, without the appearance of a single strawberry, the guests left the table.

  He escorted her, sorely reluctant to release her. “I suppose it would be terribly improper of me to ask you to dance a third time.”

  With her lips deliciously curved, she nodded. “I am the goddess of love, not the goddess of scandal.”

  “Very well. I’ll resist.”

  As they headed toward the ballroom, some wild compulsion seized him, scattering all reason. He ducked into a nearby room, pulling her with him. She looked up at him with that mysterious smile and went unresisting with him.

  She glanced around, her eyes lighting up. “The library.”

  “We’re not here to read.” He closed the door. The stillness of the room, with the noise of the guests muted on the other side of the door, fueled his impulses. He turned to her and placed his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. “I’m about to ask you a very mad, very improper question.”

  “Oh?”

  “What is your Christian name?”

  Again came that mysterious smile. “No names. Not until it’s time to take off our masks.”

  He let out an exaggerated sigh. “Very well. Then I’ll continue to call you Aphrodite. And I must apologize because I’m about to do something very rash with a lady whose name I don’t know.”

  She went still.

  He slid his hands up her arms to her shoulders and drew her toward him. He tried to move slowly, to give her time to protest or resist, but he honestly didn’t know if he could stop himself even if she asked him to. With one hand moving from her shoulder to her back, and the other touching that sweet curve of her cheek, he leaned in and k
issed her. Her intake of breath broke the silence. For a heartbeat, he feared she’d deny him, reject him, until her mouth softened, grew pliant. Her lips’ silky texture astonished him, and the contact sent a concussion through his body like a cannon blast. Clearly, it had been far too long since he’d properly kissed a woman. While most of his body heated to a level of incineration, something deep in his heart sighed as if finally reaching a long-sought refuge. A choked groan escaped him.

  He kissed her over and over, each time adding to an inner well he didn’t know had dried. Though she kissed sweetly and with some natural skill, following his lead the way she had on the dance floor, she clearly had little experience kissing. Her innocence could not be ignored. This was a lady whose pristine virtue he had trod upon, and she’d be ruined if they were caught.

  Reason cut through his primal hunger, and he forced himself to end the kiss. He held her soft body against him, trying to rein in his galloping heart. After pressing his lips to her brow, he pulled back and looked at her face.

  Her mouth, moist and overly full from their kiss, curved at the corners, and her eyes remained closed. Then, like the strike of flint against steel that sparks flame, everything about her changed. She opened her eyes and stared at him as if he’d just insulted her.

  And he had. He’d dishonored her, taken unfair advantage. And he wasn’t truly sorry. Except for her expression.

  He touched her cheeks softly, briefly, before holding his hands out to his sides in supplication. “Please. Please don’t look at me like that. I swear to you, my intentions are honorable.” He swept off his hat and mask.

  She blinked, her brows drawing together as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. Her gaze drifted up to that blond patch of hair that marked generations of dukes in his family. “You... you told me your name was Bennett. But you’re...” She seemed to have trouble breathing. “You’re the Duke of Suttenberg.”

  “I am. And I meant no disrespect. Please, will you—”

  Before he got out another word, her hand blurred and a sharp pain exploded on his cheek. Stunned, he stared.

  Her mouth spread into a scornful frown. “I am not a trollop, and I will not dally with you. Your Grace!” She threw his title at him like a curse, turned, and fled the room.

  That was the first time in his life that anyone had ever dared slap the Duke of Suttenberg. And it hurt more than he ever imagined, in more places than his cheek.

  Chapter Five

  Hannah fled the library, still grappling with the horrible truth. Her charming Bennett was the arrogant Duke of Suttenberg. How could she have liked him? Trusted him? Usually, she was a better judge of character. Keeping silent and observing those around her normally revealed much about them. But no, she’d played the flirt, and now she must face the consequences.

  At least no one had happened upon them when they’d been alone. Kissing. What had come over her? She’d behaved foolishly. With complete lack of sense. She might have been ruined.

  With the back of her hand, she wiped her mouth. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t fully erase the sweet, exciting bliss that had consumed her when Bennett kissed her.

  Clearly, her reaction only stemmed from having fallen prey to a philanderer. Odd, the Duke of Suttenberg didn’t have that reputation. But a man who went about luring girls he’d just met into isolated rooms and kissing them had no concern for the reputations or hearts of his victims.

  She marched so quickly that she had to hold up her skirts to keep them out of her way, heading to the main staircase, intent upon locking herself in her room. A voice caught her attention.

  “Wait!”

  She glanced back. With his Musketeer hat and mask in place once again, Bennett—the Duke of Suttenberg—strode toward her.

  Going anywhere alone while he pursued her would invite another unwelcome encounter. She changed directions and practically ran to the ballroom, slipping in between guests and worming her way toward the center of the room. The candles burned low in the wall sconces and chandeliers, casting a flitting light over the room.

  Voices slurred with too much drink mingled with husky whispers and laughter. Couples stood close, ladies gossiped, girls who were newly out giggled, men rocked back on their heels and eyed ladies. Footmen carrying trays of glasses wound through the guests. With so many eyes upon him, the oh-so-falsely-proper duke wouldn’t accost her and create a public spectacle.

  As she stood shielded by the crowd, she took several breaths, each time regaining another scrap of her composure. Soon the night would be over. She could do this. She was Aphrodite, the confident goddess who cared not for mortals.

  After squaring her shoulders, she lifted her head and impassively eyed the crowd. Nearby, Mrs. Potter, dressed as a swan, fanned herself, flirting with a slender man wearing a domino, whom Hannah was pretty sure was a Buchanan twin. There. She’d make a game of discovering the identities of the guests. Of course, she didn’t know all the guests, having only come to stay with her sister a few times before she moved in with them this past summer. Still, she recognized several members of the local gentry. Each gave themselves away in little ways—body shape, posture, gestures, particular ticks or habits.

  The final dance was announced. Another waltz. She let out a strangled groan, shutting down memories of the way Bennett had led her—firm, yet gentle—in a dance that seemed invented for those few glorious moments she’d spent in his arms when she’d believed he was perfect, before he’d revealed his true character.

  Mr. Hill, the pirate, turned his head in her direction. He straightened, clearly spotting her. With a growl of annoyance, she moved away from him. She didn’t have the patience to deal with him right now. But he pushed through to her.

  “Wait,” he said as he caught up to her. “Dance with me.” He stepped closer, too close. His breath reeked of liquor, and he swayed on his feet.

  “No, thank you. I’m finished dancing for the evening.”

  He frowned but rallied. “It’s too warm in here. Shall we catch our breath outside on the terrace?”

  Why did men always think women wanted to be alone with them? If he thought she’d go with a man who was three sheets to the wind, he didn’t know her very well.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Then let’s find a place to sit. The sitting room off from that door?”

  “No, that would be unwise.”

  “Then—”

  She held up her hand. “Sir, I have no desire to wound your feelings, but I do not wish to go anywhere with you. Not ever.”

  He swayed first toward then away from her, as if he stood on the deck of a ship. “But I adore you. I desire you. I—”

  “Please, don’t. It’s best that we do not continue our association.”

  His mouth fell open.

  “Good evening, sir.” She bobbed a faint curtsy and started to leave, but he grabbed her upper arm.

  His mouth twisted. “Because I’m not the brother of an earl? Is that it? I’m too common?”

  Her face heated as anger simmered her blood. “Are you calling me a snob?”

  “You think you’re too good for me, you with your lovely dowry and noble connections, now that your sister has nabbed herself an earl. But you’re nothing but an upstart little social climber.”

  A third voice cut in. “Apologize to the lady this instant, cur.”

  Bennett stood next to her, his hand on the hilt of his rapier. But he wasn’t her Bennett; he was the rude Duke of Suttenberg. Annoyance that he’d once again intruded into her life, with the growing realization that no man believed her capable of lifting a finger for herself, turned the simmer in her blood to a boil. He was just as bad as Mr. Hill. She wanted to throw something at the both of them.

  Before she could speak, Mr. Hill snarled, “This conversation does not concern you, boy.”

  “It does concern me, so leave her be.” The duke’s voice, unclouded by drink, and his form, so tall and straight, formed a sharp contrast to the drunk man. Not t
hat she wanted his interference.

  Mr. Hill’s gaze darted from the duke to Hannah, and he sneered. He turned as if to leave. Over his shoulder he cast one last barb, “That proud little doxy isn’t worth it.”

  With a quick backward step and a metallic scrape, the duke stood in the en garde position with his rapier gleaming in his hand, the point touching the base of Mr. Hill’s neck.

  A few nearby guests let out gasps of horror and delight at the sensational development. Hannah stared in open-mouthed shock. He’d actually drawn a weapon at a ball. Unbelievable.

  “Apologize to the lady this instant, or I will not hesitate to draw your blood.” The duke’s voice, barely audible, cut through the din in the room.

  Mr. Hill seemed to snap. Perhaps the abundance of alcohol, or his stung pride, drove him to recklessness, but he pulled out his cutlass, albeit more slowly than his sober opponent, and crossed his curved sword against the narrow blade of the rapier. “I’ll teach you to interfere with me, boy!”

  Stunned, Hannah gasped, “No.”

  Mr. Hill lunged forward and swung his sword. The Duke of Suttenberg’s blade bent under the weight of the blow. With a quick flick of his wrist, he disarmed Mr. Hill. The cutlass clattered as it hit the floor. Mr. Hill staggered back, swaying drunkenly, and nearly fell.

  Cole appeared and hauled Mr. Hill to his feet. Then, turning to the staring crowd, Cole smiled brightly. “Well done! Very entertaining! That’s the best end to a ball I’ve ever seen!” He applauded as if the brief fight had been planned to amuse the guests.

  Next to him, Alicia also clapped. “Bravo!”

  Hannah joined in, admiring her brother-in-law’s quick thinking. Apparently, the guests closest to the fight believed Cole’s ruse. Their faces relaxed, and they took up the applause. Mr. Hill looked around as if he were in a daze.

  While the assembly applauded the “show,” Cole shook Suttenberg’s hand. “That was a very realistic performance. Thank you.”

  The duke put away his rapier, then made a low, flourishing bow to the assembly. Cole patted Mr. Hill’s back and led him away, still congratulating him on his acting skills.