The last dance brought her to the large windowed doors that opened to the terrace outside. She was thankful for it, for the gigue had been vigorous, and she fanned herself to cool her cheeks.
The pirate who had been her partner smiled at her.
“Shall I procure you some lemonade, dear lady?” he asked. He was tall, and his mask covered most of his face, so that there was no way she could tell what he was like. But his eyes had gazed into hers as he had taken her hand for the dance, and he had smiled a wide, white smile at her, at once dangerous and enticing. His demeanor was all a part of this masquerade, she was sure, and she felt a trembling excitement at his smile.
“No... no, I am not really thirsty, only a trifle warm,” she said.
“Perhaps a short stroll out on the terrace?”
Annabella looked out of the windows, and a cool breeze brushed her hot face. She hesitated, then dismissed her uneasiness. Was this not a masquerade? Everyone knew a little license was allowed on such occasions. She nodded, and the pirate put her hand upon his arm.
The night was dark and clear, and stars sparkled over Lady Laughton’s garden. As Annabella gazed out upon the terrace, her uneasiness grew. Her former dance partner was taking her to a far corner of the terrace, and she did not know if she should protest or go along. Surety, there could be no harm in it? Lady Laughton was a respectable woman, after all, and would not invite disreputable people.
She was startled, then, when the pirate took her hand to his lips and kissed it passionately.
“Sir! You forget yourself!” she cried.
“No, sweet lady, for you are wholly enchanting, and I must see who you are, so that I may claim you during the day as well as the night.” His hand went to the strings of her mask. Annabella slapped it away.
“Stop it! I will not let you unmask me!”
He seized her arm instead and pulled her to him.
“Then at least a kiss—” He put his hand behind her neck and pressed his lips to hers. The smell of punch was strong upon him, and she knew he must be inebriated.
Frantically she struggled, pushing against him as hard as she could, but his lips moved upon hers with brutal insistence.
“No, no, let me go!” she cried as he pressed his lips upon her cheek and neck. She struggled again, trying to stamp upon his foot. She sobbed and tried to wriggle away from him, and felt her fichu pull away from her gown.
Suddenly the pressure of his body was gone. Near fainting, she sank to her knees upon the terrace’s marble floor, sobbing. Cool air fanned her cheeks, reviving her, and she looked up.
A powerful, caped figure stood before her, his sword at the throat of the pirate.
“Touch this lady again, and you will regret it,” the man said. His voice was deep and soft, yet its menace was clear.
The pirate’s mask was askew, and Annabella could see he was Sir Quentin Barnaby, ostensibly a gentleman, but of whom she had heard a few scandalous rumors. She shuddered, and slowly stood on shaking legs.
“No, please, I—I thought—” Sir Quentin stammered.
“I am not interested in your thoughts,” snapped the other man. “You will apologize to the lady and leave.” He withdrew the point of his sword just enough for Sir Quentin to rise.
A hurried apology burst from Sir Quentin’s lips, and Annabella turned her face away, accepting his apology with a nod.
“Now go. And if I see you near this lady again, you will suffer for it.”
Annabella heard Sir Quentin’s feet slip upon the floor in his haste to depart. A finger came up under her chin, making her look up at her rescuer.
He was masked, of course, and in the guise of a Cavalier of more than a hundred years ago. The light from the ballroom caught the color of his eyes—golden, like the eyes of a lion. The shadows of the night outlined his strong, firm chin and stern, sculptured lips. One strand of hair brushed his shoulder—it was dark, like the night. He stared at her and let out a short, quick breath.
He knows me. Her cheeks grew hot with shame and fear, and she looked away from him.
“Don’t—” His fingers brushed her chin gently. “Don’t be afraid.”
“I have been so foolish. I—I did not know. I have never been to a masquerade before,” she whispered, staring into his eyes. He looked kindly at her, though how she could think so when his face was half covered by a mask, she did not know.
“No, no, of course not,” the Cavalier said, his voice gentle and soothing. I do not know him, she thought, but somehow it did not matter, for she relaxed and sighed.
“Thank you, sir. I... I wish there was some way I could repay you for coming to my rescue.”
He was silent, only looking at her, and he raised his hand as if he was going to touch her again. But he sighed and his hand dropped.
“I did little, I assure you,” he said abruptly. He turned, seeming about to leave. Quickly, Annabella put out her hand.
“Don’t leave.”
He had come so swiftly out of the night, she was half afraid he was a dream and did not want him to disappear quite yet. He stopped but did not turn back.
“Please ... will you return with me to the ballroom?” Annabella asked. She felt bold asking it, but she knew that in all politeness he’d be obliged to ask her to dance. But he turned to her at last and smiled widely.
“Why, yes, of course. And may I presume to ask for a dance once we return?”
“Yes, please,” she replied, blushing.
He put her hand on his arm, and they stepped back into the ballroom. A cotillion was starting, and the Cavalier led her to the line of dancers.
He made a dashing figure, Annabella thought as they danced. He was not the tallest man she’d seen, but that did not matter to her, for she was not tall herself. But his shoulders were broad, and there was a graceful strength in his movements. He was no dandy, certainly, for when he took her hand again as he came up to her in the dance, his hands held hers with a controlled strength. Perhaps he was a Corinthian, used to vigorous sport and exercise.
She realized, suddenly, that she was staring at him and pulled her gaze away. Yet, as the dance separated them, she could not help looking at him again, the way he moved with such surety and utter control. He must be a man of action, Annabella decided, with a forceful will. He had reduced Sir Quentin to a stuttering mass of jelly, after all! The ridiculous image of the supposedly rakish Sir Quentin molded out of jelly, trembling before a hungry Cavalier made her giggle. Her eyes met the Cavalier’s, and his smile was questioning.
“Oh, it was nothing ... only I was thinking of how ridiculous Sir Quentin looked when you told him to leave me alone. He was positively quaking—like a blancmange! And you looked so fiercely at him, I thought you might almost have eaten him up.”
The Cavalier grinned widely, his teeth showing white against his brown skin. He must be a sportsman, or a foreigner, for his skin to be so brown, thought Annabella. No, not a foreigner, for he had no accent.
“No, never! I detest blancmange. It has a cold, slimy consistency, you see, and sits on one’s plate like an anemic slug.” He pursed his lips, looking thoughtful. “Very much like Sir Quentin, in fact.”
A burst of laughter escaped Annabella, and she almost choked, trying to stifle it. She shook her head at him.
“You think not?” he asked, smiling.
“Oh, no, not an anemic slug. His nose was too red from drink for that.”
The Cavalier laughed aloud, then tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, for the dance had ended. She fanned herself, for the dance had been a vigorous one, but found the fan taken gently from her hand. The Cavalier waved it enough to stir the curls gently about her face. She glanced at him; he was watching her, a smile on his lips, and his eyes behind the mask seemed to hold a secret, intimate and warm.
She could feel herself blush, then heard him sigh. She dared look up at him again, and he smiled ruefully as he returned her fan.
“I am afraid I am not very accomplished at
fanning,” he said.
“Why do you say that?” Annabella asked.
“If the color of your cheeks is an indication, my fanning has made you warm rather than cool.”
“If you wish me to become cool, forward remarks like that will definitely accomplish it,” she said, but could not help smiling a little.
The Cavalier took her fan again. “Then I will have to fan you again, for I definitely do not want that.”
Annabella felt her cheeks heat again, much to her annoyance, but he bent a look upon her that seemed so mischievous, and his fine lips curled up in such a way, that she could not be angry at him.
His smile turned into a wide grin, and she realized that he was flirting with her. How deliciously wonderful it was! Her parents did not encourage flirting these days; the Duke of Stratton did not approve of it. Annabella smiled at the Cavalier in return, and a fine, exhilarating shiver settled over her when he raised her hand to his lips. Oh, if only it were this man who was courting her, and not the Duke of Stratton!
“Will you stay for the unmasking?” she blurted. Her face grew warm again, feeling she had been too bold in asking, but she did so want to know who this Cavalier was!
He drew in a breath, almost seeming about to answer, then his lips pressed together before they relaxed in a smile. A cool breeze brushed her face, and she realized he had taken her out to the terrace again.
“Perhaps... perhaps not.” His voice lowered, almost to a whisper, and she could feel his breath upon her ear. “Perhaps I wish to remain in your memory as I am now, unknown. Someone who watches you in secret, someone you may know and who holds this moment in his heart, remembering it even as you unknowingly speak with him at a supper, a rout, or a luncheon. I could be anyone. Think of it, Annabella.”
She drew in her breath and shivered. How intriguing it would be, and exciting! She had felt so stifled lately, despite the balls and routs she’d been to. If the Cavalier attended them, too, it would be like a game, trying to discern who he might be.
“Will you promise to tell me, if I guess correctly?” she asked.
“Perhaps.”
“But I must know sooner or later! It is not fair if you do not give me some clue and will not admit who you are. One clue, if you please! I will not ask more than that.”
He looked at her, and his smile faded. Annabella was suddenly aware he had moved closer to her—how could she not notice, when he had come so close as to whisper in her ear just moments ago? She looked up at him, feeling oddly breathless.
“One clue, then,” he said, and sighing, kissed her.
Only his lips held hers, and his hand held her chin; he touched her nowhere else. Yet she could not move, held in place by his mouth feathering over hers, his fingers tracing a shimmering line from her chin to just below her ear. That was all he did, but it was more than what Sir Quentin had done, for the Cavalier’s gentleness made her think propriety a foolish thing instead of the wisdom her parents said it was.
She closed her eyes, letting her other senses have their turn: feeling his fingertips strong and firm against her skin; the scent of him, like sweet air and earth just after a spring rain, and the faint, very faint scent of roses. It was Lady Laughton’s garden roses, she was sure, but the sweetness, the strength, the gentleness was all the Cavalier’s.
His hand stroked her cheek and fell away; his lips left hers with a last soft brush. Annabella kept her eyes closed for a moment, for she felt that if she opened them, the lingering sensation of his kiss would fade too quickly. But a cool breeze brushed her lips instead, and she opened her eyes at last.
He had gone quietly into the night, gone as swiftly as he had come.
* * * *
“You failed.”
Sir Quentin mopped his suddenly damp brow with his handkerchief. “No, no, I tried—”
“You did not try hard enough.” The shadow before him shifted slightly, and Sir Quentin moved back. “She must be tested, I told you that.”
“It was not my fault!” Sir Quentin cried. “It was that damned Cavalier fellow! If he had not interfered, I would have seduced her, I know it!”
The man who stood in the shadows under the balcony of Lord Laughton’s house said nothing, but Sir Quentin felt as if eyes were boring into him nevertheless. He never knew when the man would appear, or who he was. All he knew was that the man had given him money when he had needed it, and had asked him to seduce Miss Annabella Smith in return. It would be a simple thing, Sir Quentin had thought, and it would have been done tonight had it not been for the masked Cavalier.
He peered into the darkness, but could see nothing of the man. The first time he had met him was when he had woken up one night at Mrs. Marley’s house. The whore he’d bedded had gone, but the man had spoken to him from a deeply shadowed corner of the room and offered him five hundred pounds if he’d seduce Miss Smith. It’d given him a fright at first; there was something about the man that made the hairs on his neck prickle. Sir Quentin had needed the money, for he’d lost five hundred pounds and more at faro, so he had agreed. But when he tried to see the man, he could glimpse nothing but a black cloak and hat tipped over a black mask. He’d shrugged. It was nothing to him if the man wanted to keep things secret.
“Perhaps there is something in what you say,” the man said finally. “But you must be careful in the future. I do not tolerate incompetence.” His voice was cold, as cold as the grave.
Sir Quentin shuddered, and feeling as if a trap was slowly closing over him. Perhaps it would be better if he returned the money—he’d get it somehow—and just forgot the whole scheme. But five hundred pounds ... A surge of resentment rose in him.
“If it is so damned important, I don’t see why you can’t do it yourself!”
Silence again. Then: “You must be careful in the future. I do not tolerate incompetence.” The voice was colder than ever. The man laughed quietly. “Besides, it is too late. I have bought up the mortgages on your estate—worthless as they are.”
Sir Quentin closed his eyes against the faintness that threatened to overcome him. The trap had closed with a decided snap. Debtor’s prison, then, if he did not cooperate with the man in the shadows.
“Very well, then,” Sir Quentin said, and hated the way his voice shook. “Is there anything else?”
“No,” said the man. “For now. You may go.”
Sir Quentin stared hard into the darkness, but he could see nothing, and he could hear no further sound from under the balcony. He shrugged and put on a careless manner as he walked back into Lord Laughton’s house. But he could not help feeling that the man was watching him as he left.
The man in the shadows frowned. Perhaps he had chosen the wrong man to test Miss Smith. It was difficult to tell, for it was true that the masked Cavalier had stopped Sir Quentin before he could get very far. But perhaps ... perhaps Miss Smith was a wanton, for did she not go out on the terrace with Sir Quentin? On the other hand, if she was truly a naive innocent, it could be she did not know enough to avoid certain situations. No, it was necessary to test her further, for he was nothing if not fair and just. If she was pure, pure as he required her to be, then she would be worthy of his affections. But if she was not, then she had to be punished, for no woman who enticed him could be less than perfect.
He shook his head. Perhaps it was not enough to have Sir Quentin test Miss Smith. Sir Quentin could lie, after all, and was not totally trustworthy. He would have to watch Miss Smith from time to time—daily, and her every movement, if necessary. It was the only way to be sure of her, and the only fair and just way to go about it. And he was always just. He prided himself on that.
Chapter 2
Parsifal leaned back on the wall just below the Laughtons’ terrace and closed his eyes. God, what a fool he was! He was thankful he’d not let Miss Smith persuade him to take off his mask. Lord only knew what she’d think if she found out he was only Parsifal Wentworth, the butt of his family’s jokes. His hands grew damp under his glo
ves, thinking of it. He did not even know how he’d managed to steal a kiss from her. Heat rose from his belly at the thought of her lips, soft and sweet, and he groaned.
He’d wanted to kiss her thoroughly, wanted to touch his lips to her neck and breasts. A wildness had seized him, and images of himself pulling her down, kissing each part of her, had flashed through his mind. She is a lady, she is young and defenseless, a rational part of his mind had said, and he had only kissed her lips and touched her face instead. He should not have even done that; in kissing her, he’d been no better than Sir Quentin.
But she had not protested or moved away, though she could have done so. He wondered if—but no. She’d only let him kiss her out of gratitude, he was sure, and she did not know who he was, other than a figure of fantasy. It was easy to be caught up in the fantasy of a masquerade. She had not kissed Parsifal Wentworth at all but a masked Cavalier who had stumbled upon her predicament and through sheer luck routed a coward.
And that was another thing: What in the world had possessed him to jump into such a situation? He’d always been deliberate in his actions, carefully weighing what he should or should not do. He abhorred violence, especially if it meant he’d have to do it. And yet, one glance at the pair had sent him running to thrust Sir Quentin away from Miss Smith. It wasn’t even that he’d gone to her rescue—he had not even known it was she when he’d intervened. He had just assumed some lady was in distress and rushed in. Well, he had been lucky that he hadn’t botched it and that Sir Quentin was cowardly enough to run instead of challenging him.
Parsifal looked around the corner of the terrace. He let out a breath of relief. Annabella was gone. If he was careful, he could slip away once the clock struck midnight, which signaled the time at which everyone was to unmask. Heaven help him if he were to find himself next to Corisande Bentley at the unmasking—and he was sure Caroline would tell her what his disguise was. Miss Bentley never stopped talking so that he could get a word in edgewise, and he’d just as soon not have her see him, or else she’d cling like a leech. He’d have to collect Caroline, of course, directly after the unmasking and never mind her protests. He was not going to get himself into trouble again.
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