“Pardon me, miss,” a kind male voice said nearby. “I seem to have trod upon your costume.”
Amelia turned with a polite smile to find a simply-dressed and simply-masked man by her side, holding part of her train. “It’s quite all right,” she replied in her perfectly cultured voice, a little higher than her natural tone. “It is quite meddlesome; it has been happening all night.”
The man smiled and inclined his head. “But it is a lovely costume. My wife is quite envious and has been telling me so all night.”
Amelia laughed and took the train from him gently. “She ought to have a word with me, then. I shall tell her all the faults of it, and she would not feel so jealous after that.”
He chuckled and held out his hand. “She would enjoy that very much. Thomas Clairbourne, at your service.”
What were the odds of that? Amelia didn’t bother to hide her smile. “Alexandra Driscoll,” she said with a curtsey. “A pleasure, sir.”
He nodded, still smiling. “Might I take you to my wife, Miss Driscoll? And find you some refreshment?”
She released a small sigh. “That would be much appreciated.” She gave him a look as he gestured the way. “Do you normally approach women this way and with such introductions, Mr. Clairbourne?”
He shook his head, moving around a crush of individuals. “Not at all. But you looked a trifle lost, and Lucy insisted I save you.”
“So, you didn’t really tread on my costume.”
“Oh, I did, I promise, and not even intentionally.”
Amelia smirked and fought the urge to scratch at her wig. It was a glorious part of her costume, but a bit maddening to wear. Still, it masked her identity and suited the ensemble so perfectly. No one would have recognized her, even if they did know her outside of this room. And no one would be able to find her when the masquerade was over.
And that was what mattered.
“Clairbourne,” Amelia murmured as if thinking hard. “My mother knew a Clairbourne at school, she was only just speaking of her before I came down to London.”
“Truly?” Mr. Clairbourne responded with surprise. “Any idea who? There are a few of us, after all.”
“Mariah?” Amelia suggested with a frown. “No, Mary, I believe. Imaginative girl, always scribbling something and had her nose in a book, but very pretty. That was how Mother described her, at least.”
Mr. Clairbourne frowned a little, brow furrowed. “I don’t know of any Marys in my direct family, but I’m not the most informed with the line. I’ll turn you over to Lucy and go find my aunt, she’s milling about somewhere, and she knows all the cousins and all the gossip.” He rolled his eyes a little, making Amelia smile.
“If you like,” she replied with a small smile. “It is no matter, though it would be delightful to write to Mother about her old friend, if I could.”
Mr. Clairbourne was as good as his word. Once Amelia had been introduced to Mrs. Clairbourne, who was somewhat more reserved than she had expected, and therefore not inclined to conversation, he presented his aunt, Mrs. Armenia Brimley. There was no restraint with this woman, and soon Amelia was privy to all the details of that particular branch of the Clairbourne family. It took quite some time, but eventually, she heard the name Mary, and she stopped the older woman at once.
“Tell me more about Mary,” Amelia said as kindly as she could while wishing this would all end quickly.
“The Hertfordshire cousins,” Mrs. Brimley wheezed, her expansive girth making the chair she sat in creak with every breath. “Strange lot. My second cousins. Mary, Dottie, and Frank. Dottie married a barrister, you know, and while I never think very well of barristers, I think Mr. Chapman might be all right. Frank married some chit from Bristol; a love match, as I understand it. Not a particularly good match, but considering Mary, they were pleased by it.”
Amelia’s stomach clenched. “What happened to Mary?”
Mrs. Brimley clucked her tongue, shaking her massively powdered wig and sending bits of it falling into Amelia’s lap. “Poor Mary. John and Anne were so distraught. She was determined to marry for her heart, and the man was a merchant, of all things. Completely unsuitable, and she had to visit him in prison at one point. She was cut off, you know. But she was of age, and so she married him. It was dreadful; nobody came to the wedding, and the man left straightaway for a shipment. Lord knows what became of Mary after that. She was never welcomed back to Hertfordshire.”
Thoughts and feelings were filtering through Amelia’s head so fast she could hardly keep up. Rage at her mother’s family for cutting her off. Dismay at her mother for wedding a criminal. Relief at a marriage at all. Confusion… Curiosity… Too much, and yet too little. What could she ask? What could she say?
“Poor thing,” she settled on, trying to sound sympathetic. “Did anyone in the family hear of her?”
“Dottie might have done,” Mrs. Brimley said with a huff. “The sisters were close, there is no denying it. You could try her. They’re in Cheapside, now Parliament is in session. Mr. Chapman enjoys that sort of thing.” The older woman rolled her eyes and fanned herself. “Good heavens, it’s warm. Where is my nephew? He must fetch me punch.”
Sensing she would not get any more out of the woman, nor her relations, Amelia excused herself and moved towards the terrace, wishing for the night air and some peace. The room was too hot and the music too loud, and the perfume of several ladies was so excessive that breathing was becoming difficult. A few moments of refreshment, and then she could slip away unnoticed and return to her boarding house to search for clues in her mother’s diaries.
Rogue had let her take them for a time, as he had gone through them and analyzed what he could from them, though apparently there was too much sentimentality for him to stomach.
Served him right.
Someone else trod upon her train, jerking her to a stop. She turned to tug the fabric free and found a man dressed in a turban and foreign costume staring at her back as she did so.
“Might I help you, sir?” she asked stiffly, still keeping her voice high.
“I rather think you might,” he slurred, weaving a little where he stood.
Amelia rolled her eyes a little. “Well, remove yourself from my costume, and perhaps you will get it.”
He shuffled back, and Amelia tugged herself free, then turned in the opposite direction, away from her drunken admirer.
She moved between several people and started towards the doors when the masked man from before stepped into her path, his lips quirking into a smile. “Not yet, goddess.”
His voice was low, and it sent a tingling sensation into her fingers and toes. “Not yet what, sir?”
He shook his head slowly, his blue and white mask making his eyes shimmer dangerously. “You cannot leave yet. Not without meeting me. Especially with how you’ve been avoiding me all night.”
Amelia smiled slyly, enjoying the playful nature that was somehow without any sort of dark intent. The man was charming and undoubtedly attractive, but she felt that somehow the power was hers. “And who are you that I should be so inclined to stay?”
He stilled and tilted his head a little, seeming curious. “You don’t know who I am?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “Should I?”
“It should be obvious.”
Amelia smirked a little, wondering why that should be the case. “And yet, I am without the answer. Are you supposed to be important?”
He smiled at her then, a full, beaming smile that no sensible woman would have been unmoved by. She nearly swooned where she stood. Good heavens, what a smile!
“Now you must dance with me. That is the most wonderful thing I have heard all night.”
She put a finger to her chin and tapped. “Am I permitted to dance with a stranger?”
“That all depends,” he said with a wry smile. “Which goddess are you?”
She dropped her hand and dipped her chin to look at him more directly. “Whichever one induces you to behave, sir.”
He chuckled and extended his hand to her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Dance with me, goddess, I beg of you. And save me from everyone here that is not you.”
Well, what was the harm in dancing with an attractive man with a smile like that and words that made her sigh? It was only a dance, only this night, and she was no one at all.
She placed her hand in his and shivered at the contact. “Consider yourself saved, then.”
He squeezed her hand gently. “You have no idea.”
Chapter Twelve
One dance turned into three, and what was not dancing was shameless flirtation and fun. Amelia wasn’t sure she had ever laughed so much in her entire life, and as it was a masquerade where the usual proprieties were undoubtedly looser, she felt quite free to monopolize her mystery man as much as she liked.
And he was certainly content.
He had not looked anywhere else since they’d met, and while that ought to have disturbed her, it was instead rather tantalizing.
Who he was had been as much of a mystery as anything she had portrayed tonight. He’d not asked her name, always calling her ‘goddess’, and she’d never asked him his. Names made everything real, and this was anything but. She wanted to live in this fantasy where a wealthy man with manners and charm wished to flirt and spend time with her, while never taking liberties of any sort.
They’d walked the ballroom twice, her arm politely linked through his, all the while smirking and laughing about the more ridiculous costumes of the evening. He’d comment on the dance, she’d reply with some sort of dry humor, and then he’d whisk her into the silly dance they had just criticized. She was hardly skilled in the dance, but he made up for her ineptitude with his grace and good humor. And he never commented on it, so perhaps he did not notice.
She found that idea hard to fathom, as he seemed to notice everything.
They were out on the terrace now, at last getting some fresh air and a reprieve from the oppressive ballroom. Amelia took a moment to study the man that had taken up so much of her evening so unexpectedly.
He was taller than she was, but not overly so, which was to be expected. She was a little tall for a woman, as she had often been told. He wore his hair combed back, but she could see where the almost too-long strands curled at the ends. Would his hair have been filled with curls if not for the style of the evening? He was clean-shaven, almost brutally so, but he would need to shave again soon; she could see the dark shadow along his cheeks and jaw. It was a strong jaw with chiseled features, just as a man ought to look, in her opinion.
And his body… well, perfectly tailored clothes were designed to make a man look his best, and he was no exception. But he did seem to fit the cut exceptionally well, and Amelia could undoubtedly appreciate a strong, broad set of shoulders. All in all, the man appeared to be perfectly ideal.
Then there were his eyes…
Generally, Amelia preferred dark eyes, much like the Gent had. All three of the men she had favored in the past had possessed dark eyes, and it had been her favorite feature on each one. They always seemed to be warm and inviting, and one could get lost in the dark swirls therein.
Yet his eyes were a most potent blue. And nothing in the world had captivated her like they had. A strange fire had begun to burn within her the moment those eyes had found her, and it had only intensified in heat and sensation as the night had gone on. He could see through her disguise into the depths of her soul, and never had such vulnerability felt so very freeing.
“Tell me two things that are true,” he said after a moment, holding one of her hands, as they leaned against the railing of the terrace beneath the stars, “and one thing that is a lie.”
Amelia grinned and played with the fingers she held. “Oh, where to begin?”
“Anywhere you like. Quite literally anywhere. I will accept any insight you give me.”
She chuckled and leaned against him a little. “I can ride a horse astride and sidesaddle but cannot drive a team to save my life.”
“Then let us hope you never have to save your life by driving a team.”
“Indeed. Then some dashing fellow will have to save me.”
“I volunteer myself to your service, madam.”
“I accept.”
He smiled at her a bit wickedly and brought her hand to his lips, lingering too long for propriety and not long enough for her satisfaction, but certainly long enough to distract her.
“I… I shouldn’t be here,” she managed, her words shaking as much as her kneecaps.
“And there is your lie,” he scolded with a knowing look. “For you most certainly should.”
Amelia needed to find her composure, her control, some sort of protection against herself. This was too dangerous, and she was slipping on this somewhat precarious slope. She was never so unsteady, and the unfamiliarity of it all frightened her.
And despite his correction, that wasn’t her lie.
“I have never been to London before this,” she said at last, ducking her face as though she would blush.
He squeezed her hand gently, chuckling. “No need to be embarrassed about that. I wondered that myself, having never seen you before.”
She glanced at him as much as her mask would allow. “Are you certain of that?”
She could almost see a brow rise, his smile turning crooked. “Are you saying that you have seen me?”
Amelia shrugged one shoulder, her braided strap inching closer to her neck. “I might have done. One never knows.”
“I would know.”
“How fortunate for you to live with such certainty.”
“I am certain about everything and nothing where you are concerned.”
She had to smile at that, desperate to ask what he meant, and just as eager to avoid the very same. “What honesty, sir,” she praised, turning her smile to him. “Will you be as honest with your truths?”
He nodded, smiling crookedly, entwining his fingers with hers. “I will always be perfectly honest with you.”
Well now, that was a bold thing to proclaim.
Amelia chose to say absolutely nothing to that. Best to not remember such things, as they would never live longer than the breath they were spoken on.
“I hate balls,” her companion said with no reluctance. “Can’t abide them in general.”
She let out a laugh and shook her head. “That is no surprise. I saw your expression before you came over to me at last. You were having a miserable time.” She laughed again at the memory.
“I will admit to such freely,” he agreed, smiling at her laugh. “It was all wrong before you.”
There he went again, setting her thoughts and senses askew. She bit down on her lip and looked away, no longer feeling the need to laugh.
“I do not care for dessert,” he announced as if his last words were not painfully sweet to her ears.
She jerked and looked at him in surprise. “You don’t?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps I will never properly appreciate the sweeter things in life.” He heaved a dramatic sigh, then smirked in her direction.
Amelia giggled at his playfulness, and then adopted a somber expression. “Perhaps not. But too many sweets have undoubtedly led to many a downfall, so you are quite right to avoid them.”
“I am glad you approve.” He looked back towards the ballroom and chuckled softly. “I’ve never really thought about my future. In fact, I think I’ve been running from it.”
“Is it so dreadful a prospect?” she asked, studying his profile, loving the way the shadows of the night played across his features.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I never trusted myself enough to look towards it. Never thought I would have much of one. Never made plans.” He exhaled slowly, then looked at her very directly.
She reared back a little. “What?”
“You make me want to plan.”
Her eyes widened, and it was all she could do to manage a very faint “Oh.”
He stu
died her for a second, then smiled a little. “Which shows what a disastrous state I am in, to be sure.”
Amelia swallowed hastily, wanting to shake her head free of the fog currently surrounding it. “Yes, indeed,” she said with an attempt at a laugh. “You know absolutely nothing about me save for what you see, and I make you want to plan? It is fortunate I have no idea who you are, or I should be quite shocked, I am sure.”
He snorted. “If you knew who I was, you would not be surprised in the slightest by that. It is quite commonly expected of me.”
She couldn’t help smiling as she watched him, wondering who he was, how he could admit so much to her, and why in the world he was spending his evening out here with her when there were so many others he could choose. And why he seemed to be everything she had never thought a man would be. It was all too perfect.
“Why are you smiling?” he asked in a low voice, touching the corner of her mouth.
Amelia felt her smile spread, taking his finger with it. “I don’t know,” she replied easily. “You make me smile.”
He shook his head, sliding his finger down to touch her chin. “Not possible. I don’t make anyone smile.”
“Then I must be an exception.”
His eyes darkened as he met her gaze. “That you certainly are, goddess.” His finger stroked under her chin slowly, unintentionally stoking the fire that grew within her.
She sighed at the contact and closed her eyes, her fingers fluttering against his hold. She’d never felt sensations like this before, never felt so much in so short a time, never known these feelings existed.
Which was why it must all be a fantasy. Amelia was dreaming, and oh, how painful would be the waking.
“Who are you, goddess?” he whispered, his breath dancing across her skin.
“I can’t tell you,” she breathed, leaning her head back, feeling the hair of her wig dance against the bare skin of her back.
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“What if I ask nicely?”
She smiled and sighed as his fingers wandered down her neck a little. “You are.”
“I can ask more nicely.”
A Rogue About Town (London League, Book 2) Page 14
