by Erica Taylor
“I am quite pleased to see you,” he said. “It has been a long time.”
“I am not too afraid to show my face in public, you know,” she retorted, a little more venomously than she intended. “If they think they can chase me away, they are severely mistaken.”
“I never thought you the type to tuck tail and run,” Andrew replied.
“Yes, well, these rumors floating about have me a little on edge,” Clara admitted as they moved across the floor in time with the thirty other dancing couples. “You must know the things said about me are not true. I would hate for such things to lower your opinion of me.”
“It would take a lot more than some silly rumors for that to happen,” Andrew replied. “My opinion of you is not based on the opinions of others.”
“I wish the rest of the ton had your good sense, your grace,” Clara replied. “Regardless, I was given strict orders not to attend this ball. My brother does not know I am here.”
“You snuck out?” Andrew chided in mock outrage.
Clara laughed. “Did you really think I was going to miss this? Besides, it was a bit of a rebellion on my part, I will admit. He explicitly said no one was to attend, ‘no one,’ of course, meaning me.”
“And you came anyway.”
Clara nodded. “Of course I did. When Jonathan issues such an order, it is like an invitation to disobey. It was fun, if not the tiniest bit dangerous.”
“Dangerous,” Andrew repeated to himself, grinning at her as he twirled the two of them in an unnecessary turn.
“What is the fun in life if there is no danger, no excitement?” she asked, returning his brilliant smile with one of her own, a little dizzy from the turn. “One ends up stodgy and boring and cranky, like my brother, who claims that masked balls are the very epitome of impropriety. If they are so inappropriate, then how is it that so many people flock to them each year?”
“Because people want some excitement and danger in their lives,” Andrew replied. “Secretly, of course, this is all done with the presumed anonymity of a mask. Not that these masks are any good at hiding anyone’s identity.” The music ended, the last strings of the waltz quivering in the air, and he held Clara for one breathless moment longer than necessary.
He looked at her and seemed to be taking in her entire face as if for the first time. An odd glint twinkled in his eyes before they stepped away from each other.
Clara glanced around the ballroom, scanning the sea of faces. Everyone was seemingly uninterested in the dancing couples but obviously desperate to have firsthand knowledge of the night in order to have the best gossip tomorrow. She knew it had been reckless to come tonight, but her Great-Aunt Bridget had goaded her into it, claiming she would be there to chaperone. True to her erratic and eccentric disposition, Great-Aunt Bridget was nowhere to be found. Luckily, another aunt was in attendance and had agreed to act as Clara’s chaperone, if only in name, as long as she behaved herself. Aunt Lucinda did not want word of their associating to get back to her brother lest he peg her as an accomplice. Jonathan despised anything ‘Macalister’ almost as much as he despised Clara.
The music began again, and Andrew swept her into his arms for a second dance.
“Tell me, your grace, what is the most dangerous thing you have ever done?” she asked him, embracing the forwardness she was rumored to possess. She typically was not so presumptuous, but this man seemed to always draw out a side of her she often forgot existed.
“Probably rescuing you from the clutches of Lady Laura,” he replied, though she knew it was not the truth.
Clara nodded in agreement. “Yes, that was a most unfortunate encounter.”
“I was not certain if I was rescuing you from her or if she was the one in need of the rescue,” he commented, glancing down to her. “You looked ready to hit her.”
Clara laughed. “I wanted to. But even I am not that brash.”
“Other than Lady Laura, are you enjoying your evening?”
“Immensely so,” she replied and smiled up at him. “Are you?”
“My evening has taken a turn for the better,” he replied. His eyes twinkled again.
“All it takes is dancing to lift your spirits?”
“With the right partner. . .”
“How are you sure that partner is me?” Clara asked coyly. “Are you prone to entertain multiple partners in one evening?”
Andrew swallowed hard, blinking at her in brief amazement. A lovely blush raced up to her face, but she did not look away. She impressed herself with her composure.
“I danced twice earlier this evening,” he answered. “Once with one sister, and then again with another.”
“Prearranged, of course.”
“Of course,” he replied.
“Your sisters are very lucky to have you as their brother, your grace,” she added, annoyed at the wistfulness in her voice.
“Compared to your brother, I must appear a saint.”
“Indeed,” she replied.
“Will he be displeased when he discovers you attended tonight?”
Clara nodded. “I had hoped to slip away unnoticed with no hint of anyone discovering I was in attendance.” She sighed. “I was foolish to think that I could force society to accept me despite the horrid things said about me. I should have known they would choose my brother and the lies.” She watched as the blue of his eyes grew into a dark, stormy tempest. His face hardened, and he looked away.
“Oh dear, I’ve done it again,” she sighed. “My audacity has ruined yet another evening. Please forget I said anything, your grace. I should not want to ruin your birthday celebrations.”
“You are not ruining anything,” he practically growled at her. “I just—”
Andrew clamped his mouth shut, and Clara took that as an end to the conversation. His behavior was baffling, though she had long given up on understanding him.
As Lord Andrew, he had laughed and teased and enjoyed life. As the Duke of Bradstone, he was cold and hard as stone, hence why the gossip rags dubbed him the “Stone Duke.” She had liked Lord Andrew—she did not know what to do with the Stone Duke.
Andrew did not look at her for an entire turn around the room, and she gave up on her attempt at forcing him into conversation. This was the last dance until supper, and she hoped she could make her escape without another incident.
The duke stepped away abruptly and bowed again, the dance set ending. As she dipped into her curtsy, Clara studied his hardened expression, taking in his handsome features. Andrew was a full head taller than her, and she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes. His shoulders were broader than she remembered; they fit perfectly into his flawlessly tailored evening coat. His cravat was expertly tied, and an elegant and expensively jeweled cravat pin winked at her in the candlelight.
Tilting his head to the side, he did not say anything as he studied her, almost as if he were seeing her for the first time. Clara did not want to break his gaze or the magic of that exact moment because she knew the real reason she had snuck out of her brother’s London residence was for a chance to see this man again.
Watching the lovely Lady Clara was something Andrew realized he could do for hours. He was mesmerized by the way the flecks of gold in her eyes reflected the candlelight. There was a touch of worry in those eyes, and it annoyed him that she had a reason to be worried. He caught a couple of inquisitive glances from his sisters as he moved Lady Clara off the dance floor. He ignored them, pretending he was not about to cause an uproar among the marriage-minded females in the room. Never had he danced with a woman who was not his sister, at least not in the last five years. The repercussions of his rescuing Clara from the likes of Lady Laura would be unfathomable, but he was choosing to pretend it was nothing.
I will figure this all out tomorrow. Tonight, I will just enjoy it.
The crowd had begun to count
down to midnight, led by his brother Luke, half a room away clapping to the countdown, laughing with his cronies around him.
“Five, four, three, two, one!” There was a loud “Huzzah!” rousing laughter and applause as everyone took off their masks. Andrew pulled off his mask, pushing it back over his head as Clara fiddled with her ribbons, her fingers slipping on the knot. His gloved fingers moved over hers, and he untied the knot, the mask sliding to her hands.
Shyly, she trailed her gaze up to meet his, her dark lashes blinking hesitantly. Belatedly, a genuine smile spread across her face.
Gads, he had forgotten how beautiful she was. It nearly stole his breath away.
“I do not believe I have wished you a happy birthday, your grace,” she said sweetly, her voice soft and warm. At the sound of the words “Happy Birthday” people around them turned to see who was wishing who a happy birthday. This sparked another round of “Happy Birthday, your grace!” before they realized who had originally spoken the words and pointedly turned away, shooting disapproving glances her way. Clara’s eyes darted around the ballroom, and Andrew could see the hurt of rejection on her face, and it angered him. The light that had glittered in her eyes moments earlier had dimmed; the flicker of danger and excitement had faltered. While he was a largely accepted member of society, she was not.
Of course, after all these years it had to be Clara to make him break all his own rules. He chuckled at the absurdity of it, and a few glances darted their way.
“I’d appreciate it if you would not laugh at me, your grace,” she said sternly, her voice firm, and he looked down to her eyes practically spitting fire at him.
“I was not laughing at you, Lady Clara, just at the situation.”
“I fail to see what is so amusing,” she said crossing her arms across her chest, her black domino mask gripped tightly in her hand.
“Just that it was you under your mask and me under mine,” he admitted. “Of all the people in this entire ballroom, it was you and I in the end.”
“I still don’t see the humor,” she replied. “Now if you will excuse me—”
“You are not going to join me for supper?” he asked, halting her with his hand on her arm.
She looked down. “I don’t think that is such a good idea,” she answered, her gaze slowly trailing up to meet his, holding for a moment before glancing to the people surrounding them who were discreetly watching their interaction.
Shrugging, Andrew replied, “We danced the supper dance together, which grants me the courtesy of escorting you to supper. Unless, of course, you are eager to get home.”
He knew she was not. He knew she wanted more than anything to stay and be a part of the festivities. That was the problem: he knew Clara Anne Louise Masson, had known her for years. Andrew had once been the boon companion of her older brother, the Earl of Morton. Once, he had dared her to a diving contest at her Lake District home, once he had thrown toads at her and always celebrated when he bested her in a horse race. And once, five years ago, Andrew had been engaged to Clara’s twin sister.
Clara eyed him suspiciously as he offered her his arm.
“What harm can it do?” he asked softly.
Hesitantly, she accepted his arm. He looked down at her, drinking in her light. He noted her delicately arched eyebrows, one currently raised in either confusion or amusement. Her nose was a tad too full to be considered perfect, but it suited her face. Her rose-colored lips were pulled to the side as she chewed on the inside of her cheek.
“What has gotten into you this evening?” she wondered.
“I just feel like living a little dangerously tonight,” he shrugged.
Clara rolled her eyes in exasperation, and he released a loud bark of laughter for the first time ever as far as the ton could remember. It would be the talk of the town the next day, he could see the lines of the gossip rags practically writing themselves.
Before leading her into supper, the usually stoic Stone Duke of B— uncharacteristically danced with, laughed with an unmasked Lady C—, the slightly scandalous twin sister of the woman who had jilted him at the altar five years earlier. Could this indicate the Duke of B— is back on the marriage mart? Faithful reader, we will wait and see . . .
Chapter Two
Clara was not exactly sure what had come over her. Her carefully crafted plans to be gone before supper had disappeared swiftly out the window on the late spring breeze. She tried to remain calm and collected and, most of all, composed, but doing so under the Stone Duke’s intense gaze was a feat on its own, much less without five hundred or so people watching their every move.
The massive dining hall was lined with countless tables adorned with elaborate candelabras and floral arrangements, with every remaining inch covered with food. Footmen waited with individual platters and assisted guests with plates of cheeses, meats, fruits, and a delectable table of sweets. The crowd swarmed to the tables, flocking to the food.
Clara walked demurely by Andrew’s side, her hand never leaving his arm. She was not sure how he managed to keep her by his side or if it was even appropriate she be there. What made it worse was that everyone noticed. She was generally avoided, sitting on the edges of society as everyone watched her flirt with disaster and boldly continue to show her face, knowing she was one misstep from officially falling from their ranks, and yet, somehow, she hadn’t. It was like an unspoken currency among the haute ton; those with the best, newest, and juiciest first-hand gossip could rule the gossip mill. A good piece of gossip was worth its weight in gold, and Clara was their golden goose. Everyone watched the almost-ruined Lady Clara on the arm of their host—the place of the duchess.
Worse, it was painfully obvious. Andrew smoothly introduced her to numerous people, but no one knew where to look or if they should smile or nod or bow or glare. Everyone knew of her name; the reactions on people’s faces left no mystery about that, however, no one knew who she was to the duke. No one wanted to insult his grace, but no one wanted to be friendly to her either. Andrew seemed oblivious, smiling at her much too often, including her in conversation where the topic might have warranted her opinion. Clara had never talked so much at a social event in her life.
While she truly wanted to deny it, she was very aware of the duke. Not because he was a duke or because he had once been engaged to her sister, but he had always had an effect on her, even years ago when she met him as a child, before he could not see past the brilliance of her twin.
Five years earlier, Clara had ruled society at the right hand of her twin sister, Christina. It had been a natural position, being the twin sister of the Belle of the season, and Clara had found it enjoyable, amusing even. It had all been a bit silly, but sometimes the attention was appreciated. She never outshone Christina’s radiance, even though they were physically identical. Christina had been a tad more charismatic; people had flocked to her and waited with bated breath to hear what she had to say. Clara, by association, had been pulled into her sister’s popularity. People wanted to know her and be friends with her because she was Christina’s twin. Andrew had even been struck by her radiant power, so much so that he proposed marriage to Christina soon after one dance at their debutante ball.
In the end, Christina had cried off, leaving Andrew standing at the altar. Clara had been dragged to the country until the scandal of Christina’s abdication wore off. A year later, just a month before the start of the new season, her father, the old Earl of Morton, died. Clara was about to reenter society as her own person and not as an extension of her sister, and suddenly that was all gone. Into mourning they went, and Jonathan assumed the title. No season for Clara. And then, almost a year to the day later, they received the news that Christina had died as well, and she was forced back into mourning, another season lost.
Two years of mourning was really quite boring. She had been out of her blacks for just over two years, but this was the first chance she
had to return to society. Jonathan had refused to fund her a season, he refused to sponsor her at all. Clara thought her chances thin to ever get an opportunity to make a suitable marital match of her own, but then her Great-Aunt Bridgette had intervened and demanded Jonathan show some sort of familial commitment to his sister, insisting he bring her back to London. Great-Aunt Bridgette had funded her season but warned she would extend such a kindness only once.
Normally Clara never stayed for supper—too confining, too many people to stare and point and whisper. Upon reentering society at the beginning of the season, the whispers seemed to follow her everywhere. No one wanted to believe she had been in mourning all this time, everyone had chosen to create their own details of her life and believe them as truths. Balls and dancing provided activity and entertainment; it was easy to hide behind laughing and flirting and not have to think about what people were saying about you.
“Are you enjoying your meal?” Andrew asked, and she looked up at him, smiling politely.
“It is wonderful, your grace,” Clara replied.
“Is it?” he asked. He leaned forward an inch and whispered, “How could you know if you have not even taken a bite?”
Clara glanced down at the fish on the plate in her hand and realized he was correct. Not that she would have eaten it.
“I am afraid you have caught me in my faradiddle, your grace,” Clara replied charmingly. “I am actually quite sensitive to fish, in fact, to all meat that comes from the sea.”
“Really?” he asked, and looked bothered by this new information. “I did not know.”
“I see no reason why you would, your grace,” she replied.
He shrugged. “No matter. Now I am aware; I will make certain no fish is served when I know you will be attending one of my events.”
He looked down at her just then, and the look vibrating through his eyes set her heart thumping wildly in her chest. Her entire body felt warm under his smoldering gaze. The sounds of the dining room faded away, and, for a brief moment, all she saw was Andrew, the boy she had once fancied as a young girl.
