Alone ... even as she was tonight. Phaedra shook out her skirts, dispelling the hurtful images of the past. She was no longer seventeen, but six and twenty, no longer a bride, but a widow. Ewan was dead. These people, his shallow friends, no longer had the power to wound her, nor could they force her to observe the hypocrisy of a mourning she did not feel. Lifting her chin, she placed one silk-shod foot after the other, stepping with measured tread into the ballroom, her fingers tightening around the ivory handle of her fan.
Phaedra had not gone far when she was accosted by a set of wide hoops swirling under the rustle of a blue silk domino. The lady's rows of white-dusted curls were adorned with ostrich feathers, the outline of her mask emphasizing the pert tilt of her chin and the black silk patch expertly placed at the corner of her pouting red lips.
"My dearest Phaedra," the young woman trilled. "So unexpected a pleasure."
"Good evening, Muriel," Phaedra said.
The woman started, disconcerted to have her disguise so easily penetrated. But Miss Muriel Porterfield's high-pitched voice was easily as distinctive as Phaedra's red hair.
"I simply never dreamed to find you returned to London, let alone as a guest at my ball. And so charmingly late, as usual."
Phaedra gave her a brittle smile. "You are looking well, Muriel. But if you will excuse me, I believe I must offer my respects to your esteemed mother.”
She gestured toward where a formidable dame stood, her hollow cheeks puffed out with cork plumpers. She held court amidst a circle of clucking dowagers, all of them unmasked, all of them haughtily aloof from the ball's proceedings.
Muriel caught Phaedra firmly by the elbow, steering her in the opposite direction. "Most unwise. Dearest Mama is already in a high tweak. She disapproves of masked balls. It took endless coaxing to persuade her to allow me to have this one. And now your arrival!"
Muriel rolled her eyes. "Frankly, she is less than enchanted. So old-fashioned, you know, in her notions of propriety, especially with regard to widows-being such a notable one herself. She still wears weepers upon her sleeves, and Papa has been dead an age."
Phaedra attempted to disengage her arm. "I did not come here to be intimidated and skulk around as if-"
"But she is, at this very moment, attempting to decide if she should have you discreetly evicted. Far better to avoid Mama until she has time to reflect upon the rashness of such a decision." Muriel smiled demurely. "I have always found it so."
Phaedra hesitated, risking one more look at Lady Porterfield. Both plump cheeks shook with outrage. Phaedra opted for the better part of valor. It was no part of her plan to find herself escorted to the door before she had achieved her purpose in coming here this evening. She hoped that would not take long. The heat was oppressive. Already she could feel beads of moisture gathering upon her brow beneath the mask.
"Very well," she conceded, allowing Muriel to lead her through the press of guests.
"Is it not the most infamous crush?" Muriel sighed. "My ball shall be acclaimed a roaring success, though I was most distressed earlier. Parliament sat so late, we were dreadfully thin of masculine company. All the men are such selfish beasts these days. They talk of nothing but the American war and that scurrilous rogue writing those horrid pamphlets. I wish they might hang this tiresome Robin Goodfellow and be done with it."
"They would have to discover who he is first." Phaedra's lips tilted into a smile that she quickly suppressed. It would not do to look as though she knew more than she ought.
But Muriel was too taken up with enumerating the triumphs of her ball to take notice of much else. "Three young women have swooned from the heat already. We've done far better than Lady Hartford's rout. She can boast but two casualties."
"You may have a fourth victim upon your hands if I do not soon get a breath of air." Phaedra fanned herself more vigorously, an unpleasant thrumming starting inside her head in tempo with the scrape of the bows against the violin strings. The sensation grew worse as the crowd surged backward to make room for the dancers in the center of the marbled floor. But Muriel found them a spot near one of the massive white pillars that supported the cherub-bedecked ceiling of the ballroom, and sent one of the liveried footmen to procure Phaedra a glass of lemonade.
Phaedra sipped at the tepid liquid, studying the brilliant blur of dancers as they promenaded before her. All the men looked so much alike in their white-powdered wigs, their features obscured by the strips of velvet tied about their eyes. Why of all things did this affair tonight have to be a masquerade? It made the task of locating one particular man nearly hopeless. She had not even any notion what the Marquis de Varnais looked like. Doubtless the fellow would be possessed of a long thin nose, perfectly sized to be poked into other people's affairs. Her temper threatened to get the better of her all over again when she thought of her grandfather's last letter.
You can cease importuning me, my girl, Sawyer Weylin had written. I absolutely refuse to send my carriage to fetch you as long as my new friend, the Marquis de Varnais, advises against it. Armande believes that Bath is the perfect place for widows.
If the marquis fancied that, Phaedra thought, clenching her jaw, then it was obvious he had never been there. Bath was no longer fit for anyone but invalids and gout-ridden old men. How could her grandfather listen to such tripe? Beneath her anger lurked her fear that Sawyer Weylin meant to abandon her before she found some other means of independence. Her grandfather had made clear his displeasure that she had not borne a child to Ewan. But that would have been a miraculous feat, considering how rarely her husband had ever touched her.
Phaedra suppressed that old bitterness, concentrating upon her anger with this Armande person. When she found him, she would give him a blistering set-down he was unlikely to forget. The Marquis de Varnais would think twice before ever attempting to interfere in the life of Lady Phaedra Grantham again.
Intent upon scanning the crowded room, Phaedra paid but halfhearted attention to the steady stream of gossip Muriel poured into her ears.
"Lady Lizzie Devon is rumored to be already with child. You can be certain all the old tabbies will be counting the months backward when that babe is born. And did you hear about poor Tony Aackerly? He was caught stealing a gold watch from a jewelry shop, and was flung into Newgate like a common thief. Only fancy! That some shabby shopkeeper could have a gentleman treated thus-"
"Never mind all that," Phaedra cut her off. Although she was loath to do so, she saw that she would have no choice but to enlist Muriel's aid. "Answer me one question. I am looking for a man. I heard that he was to be present at your ball tonight."
"Dear me." Muriel simpered. "For one so recently widowed, you seem in a powerful hurry. Though perhaps marriage is not what you have in mind?"
"What a shocking suggestion from a young unmarried female!" Phaedra said. "But I shall resist the temptation to carry tales to your mama if you point out for me Armande de LeCroix, the Marquis de Varnais.”
"Aha!" Muriel's eyes danced. "You always were a sly one. Not nicknamed the Lady Vixen for nothing! I might have known that even buried in a dreary place like Bath, you would manage to hear about our mysterious marquis."
"Mysterious?" Phaedra frowned. "Why mysterious?"
"My dear, he simply seemed to spring up in our midst out of nowhere. No one had ever heard of the man before."
Phaedra found this intriguing. "But surely the French ambassador would know all the noblemen from his own country."
"It scarce matters. Lord Varnais is absolutely the sensation of the season. Now if you will excuse me. Mama is scowling at me. I really must pay more heed to the invited guests."
"But I want you to introduce me to the marquis."
Muriel's bow-shaped lips puckered into an expression of smug satisfaction. "He is not here yet. Like you, le cher marquis adores making a grand entrance." Lifting her skirts, she prepared to glide away.
"But how shall I recognize him?" Phaedra asked.
"When Arm
ande de LeCroix puts in his appearance, even if he is masked, you will know him."
Phaedra reluctantly let Muriel go. The young woman's casually dropped remarks had changed Phaedra's entire estimation of the man she had come to confront.
Mysterious. . . never heard of before? But her grandfather trusted few men and liked even fewer, reserving a special antipathy for foreigners. His sudden friendship with this marquis seemed all the more puzzling. The rogue must be possessed of a great deal of charm; she could scarcely contain her impatience to meet him. But, tired from a day's hard journeying, she was in no humor to wait much longer. Thanks to her grandfather's refusal to send his carriage, Phaedra had been obliged to travel upon the common stage, squashed between a fat farmer's wife and a shopkeeper smelling of fish. Her widow's jointure was small, and the cost of her fare had made a considerable dent in her meager savings. This fact only added to the grudge she harbored against the unknown marquis.
Her irritation increased with her growing discomfort in the stuffy ballroom. Despite the fact it was too early for the unmasking, she removed the velvet, which had begun to chafe the sensitive skin beneath her eyes, and stuffed the mask in her knotted purse.
Refusing several invitations to dance, Phaedra kept her eyes fixed on the doorway. She studied the few late arrivals, one portly gentleman whose garters peeked out beneath his breeches, the other a gangly youth who'd affected the style of the Macaronis, his hair a mountain of powdered frizz.
Damn Muriel. Why must she play at these games? Phaedra would never be able to guess which man might be the marquis. Thrusting aside another hopeful dance partner, she moved forward, determined to end this nonsense by making blunt inquiry.
The next instant she froze where she stood. Another man strode in behind the other two. Sweeping off a great cloak of black silk lined with scarlet, he flung it to a footman, the candlelight playing over a broad pair of shoulders covered by a cream-colored satin coat in the first mode of elegance. His white-powdered hair was pulled back in severe style, tied in a queue at the nape of his neck. He wore no domino, his only effort at disguise the silver mask concealing the upper portion of his face. Why then, Phaedra wondered, did he possess such an aura of intrigue?
Perhaps it was the way he moved. He stepped forward into the room, conveying an impression of aloofness, of isolation even in the midst of the crowd.
Phaedra jumped as the bone sticks of a fan rapped her on the shoulder. She tore her gaze from the man to confront Muriel's glinting eyes. "Well, my dear, may I not present you to the marquis? It is a meeting I would not miss for worlds, I assure you."
Phaedra nodded, her heart giving a sudden thud. She followed Muriel, hardly watching where she was going, her eyes drawn to the man who was as yet oblivious to her existence.
He must be handsome, she decided from what she could see of his features, but in a cold sort of way. His lips were frozen in an expression of hauteur; his jawline was perfectly chiseled, as though carved from granite.
"My dear Marquis," Muriel said, propelling Phaedra forward. "You have arrived at last."
"Bon soir, mademoiselle." As he turned from greeting Muriel to encompass Phaedra in his bow, she saw the eyes that glittered behind his mask, narrow slivers of ice-blue. Try as she would to suppress it, a shiver swept through her.
“My lord, you must allow me to present a dear friend of mine," Muriel began, but the marquis interrupted her.
"Introductions at a masked ball, mademoiselle?" he mocked. "You will destroy all the evening's mystery."
Muriel giggled. "Alas, sir, I fear my friend is far too eager for your acquaintance to await the unmasking. Lady Grantham, may I present Armande de LeCroix, the Marquis de Varnais. My lord, the Lady Phaedra Grantham. "
"Enchante, madam." His voice was low and seductive, steel sheathed in velvet.
Phaedra saw no sign that he even recognized her name. Yet he must, since he had obviously felt it his duty to keep her in exile from London.
"I trust my name is not unknown to you, monsieur." What had come over her? Her speech held none of the haughtiness she had rehearsed during the coach ride from Bath.
Brushing aside the lace at his wrist, the marquis produced an enameled snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket, flicking it open with a careless gesture. Phaedra watched him, her eyes riveted on every graceful movement. As he raised a pinch to one finely chiseled nostril, his mouth tipped into a slight frown.
"Grantham? Now, where have I heard ... Ah, yes." He snapped the snuffbox closed, his eyes returning to Phaedra. He studied her with cold assessment. "You are Ewan Grantham's--er, how do you English put it-Lord Ewan Grantham's relict?"
The words broke the spell of his fascination as effectively as a slap in the face. A surge of heat rushed through her. How dare he treat her as if her entire life and being were summed up by her marriage to Ewan?
"No, my lord," she snapped. "That is not how I would put it at all. I think perhaps you might know me better as Sawyer Weylin's granddaughter from Bath."
"Indeed?" he asked, his attention wandering past her to the ballroom.
"I trust you have no difficulty in recalling his name. It would seem that my grandfather sets great store by your advice. A fact I find most astonishing."
"It always pleases me to be a source of astonishment to a lady."
He favored her with a brief nod, the king dismissing a peasant girl. "Your pardon, madame. Another recent acquaintance beckons me," He walked away, leaving her speechless with anger.
Muriel snickered behind her fan. "Oh, lud, Phaedra. How very disappointing. I had expected something a little more spectacular. After all, you are passably pretty. I vow the marquis took more notice of Sophie Grandisant, in spite of her prominent front teeth. "
"I have not done with him yet," Phaedra said.
Never had she encountered the likes of such arrogance-not even in those dreadful days of her marriage, when Ewan Grantham had held his untutored bride up to ridicule before all his fashionable friends. She had learned a great deal since the time when one snub would have sent her, teary-eyed, to cower in some corner. She had learned enough to be able to teach the marquis that she was not so easily ignored. With quick strides, Phaedra placed herself directly in Varnais's path.
“My lord," she said. "I came here tonight expressly to meet you."
He flicked an imaginary speck of lint from his waistcoat. "How flattering."
Phaedra became aware of more than one head turning in their direction. She longed to draw the marquis off into some secluded nook to conduct this conversation, but Lady Porterfield's ballroom offered no such place. Lowering her voice, she said, "They are now forming sets for the minuet."
"Do I understand you to be asking me to dance, my lady?"
"Yes, I am," she replied doggedly. She must be mad! This was beyond the pale, even for the untamed Phaedra Grantham. She had the satisfaction of at last obtaining a reaction from Armande de LeCroix.
"How very-" She thought she detected a slight quiver of amusement in that smooth voice, but he went on, "How very original your English customs are, my lady. I had no idea."
Once more Phaedra became aware of the dozens of eyes trained upon her. Dear God, where would she find a hole large enough to crawl into if he refused?
One corner of his mouth twitched. "Ah bien, how could I maintain my honor as a Frenchman if I refused such a request from a beautiful woman?"
With that he offered her his hand. A blood-red ruby ring set in heavy gold contrasted with the bronzed strength of his fingers. She placed her own within his grasp, bracing herself for the chill. To her astonishment, the hand gripping hers was warm, sending a current rushing through her that made the heat of the ballroom seem as nothing. As he led her onto the floor, the buzz of voices threatened to drown out the music; but to Phaedra, all sound faded into insignificance. She felt as if she were alone with this enigmatic stranger, who made her pulse race with but a touch.
As the opening strains of the minuet sounde
d through the ballroom, Phaedra gave herself a mental shake. The rest of society, the fops, the silly chits like Muriel Porterfield, might be content to stand in awe of this man. But Phaedra was determined to find out exactly who this marquis was, what sort of mischief he might be brewing with her grandfather. He was a far cry from the elderly busybody she had expected. So why the devil had he advised against her return to London?
Gliding toward his lordship, her skirts rustling against his legs, she tried to penetrate what lay behind the mask. But his eyes were so hypnotic and piercing that she averted her gaze in confusion. She regarded his shoe buckles, the firm-muscled calves encased in white silk stockings, the tight-fitting knee breeches that clung so well to his lean hips.
"Well, what think you, madame?" His soft voice startled her.
"Of what, my lord?"
"Of the buttons on my waistcoat. I told the tailor they would never do."
"Buttons?" she repeated, wrenching her eyes away from their admiring perusal of his masculine form. "I-no, my lord, I see nothing wrong with your-your buttons."
"But I affirm that there is. If they so hold a lady's attention that she never looks up to afford me one glimpse of her beautiful eyes, then I think my tailor has greatly erred."
Flushing, Phaedra looked up at once. Was he mocking her? She could tell nothing from the dry tones in which he spoke.
"That is better."
"I am sorry, my lord. I did not mean to seem rude." Her apology was swept away as they were separated by the movement of the dance.
Why did he never smile? His lips were set, immovable, but at least his eyes did not look so cold as she'd first seen them. Or was it all a trick of the candlelight?
When they came together again, she said, "I was not staring at you, but merely watching my steps. It has been a while since I danced the minuet."
Even as she spoke, Phaedra winced in pained remembrance. The crowded assembly room, Ewan's foot hooking around her ankle, tripping her into the line of dancers. "Your pardon," Ewan had called out as he had hauled her up from the floor. "But I fear my wife tries to gallop through every dance as if it were an Irish jig." Then as always, the cruel, cutting laughter.
Susan Carroll Page 39
