When Meg turned her eyes back, the man was lost in the crowd, and she reprimanded herself. Carlo was not here. She needed to stop pining away and imagining him in every gentleman she saw.
A moment later, Helen tugged on her hand and indicated that Lucinda, Lord Featherstone, and Daniel were approaching. Meg cringed as she remembered her last meeting with the earl.
Daniel smiled at Meg beneath his mask. “Good evening, Queen Bess.” He wore a simple waistcoat and jacket in dark gray. Furry wolf ears extended from the top of his mask. He turned toward Helen. “And a lovely Egyptian ruler as well. I will need to watch my behavior tonight in the midst of so many monarchs.”
Lord Featherstone took Meg’s hand, and she reluctantly turned her attention to him, mustering a semblance of a smile, even though his touch made her scalp prickle. She was glad for the mask that hid her face.
The earl wore a doublet and hose; a large sword hung from his waist. The mask did not hide the startling blue of his eyes. “And you are . . . Romeo?” Meg ventured.
The earl made a “tut-tut” sound, shaking his head. “Miss Margaret. Tonight, I am not a lover but the brash fighter, Benvolio, set to duel with Tybalt.”
Meg would have actually found herself surprised if the earl hadn’t confused his Shakespeare. She pulled her hand away, closed her eyes, and did not even attempt to point out that Benvolio was a peacemaker while it was his cousin, Mercutio, who fought Tybalt. When she opened them, she met Daniel’s gaze and saw from his obvious attempts to hide his smile by pressing his lips together that he had also noticed the earl’s mistake.
Daniel winked before offering his arm to Meg and following Lord Featherstone and Helen up the grand staircase. Meg lifted the front of her heavy skirt to keep from tripping.
They waited in the hallway as each person was announced upon entering the ballroom. The earl and Helen stepped through the doorway, and the herald called their names: “Anthony Devon Poulter, Seventh Earl of Featherstone, and Lady Helen Poulter.”
Daniel’s mouth raised in a smile. “Are you ready, Meg?” he said. She actually thought a flicker of nervousness crossed over his expression.
Her own mouth had gone dry, and she held onto Daniel’s arm tightly as they walked into the ballroom.
“Mr. Daniel Burton and Miss Margaret Burton of South Carolina, America.”
Meg clamped her teeth tightly to keep her mouth from falling open as they walked into the ballroom. She had obviously been too involved with her self-pity to give much notice to the enormous amount of work that had gone into preparing for the ball.
Every surface glistened. Candlelight made the crystal in the chandeliers and sconces gleam, and it reflected from the mirrors. The gold-leaf of the wainscoting and the warm-hued wood floors made the room glow. Tables were arranged along the walls with long tablecloths and vases overflowing with flowers. The music that filled the air came from a small orchestra at one end of the room.
Meg could not take her eyes from the crush of people. The elegant gowns, hair pieces, sparkling jewelry, and embroidered waistcoats made the formal gatherings in Charleston seem more like barn raisings.
She still gazed, spellbound by the beauty of the decorations and the refined guests filling the ballroom, when Lord Featherstone stepped into her line of sight. He lifted the hand that was not on her brother’s arm and opened Meg’s dance card.
The earl’s touch made Meg’s muscles tense. She was glad her brother was next to her.
Lord Featherstone’s gaze lifted to Meg’s and then back to the booklet he held. “I see your waltz has already been claimed.” He tugged on her arm as he moved the charcoal pencil to write on her dance card. “I shall have to content myself with the minuet. If we’re lucky, we will find ourselves in the same group for the cotillion.” He released the book but retained his hold on Meg’s hand until she pulled it from his grasp.
Her waltz had been claimed? Surely there was a mistake.
Daniel excused himself and made his way toward a group that most likely contained the latest object of his affections.
Lucinda joined them, and Meg was relieved for an excuse to move away from Lord Featherstone. She turned toward the women and opened the booklet that hung from her wrist.
“Did you see the prince?” Lucinda asked. “He was here with the duchess. I am determined that he shall dance with me.”
Meg scanned the page, her gaze moving down the list of dances. Lord Featherstone had signed his name, reserving the minuet, but as she continued down the page, she saw another line had been marked. The waltz was to take place directly after midnight, once the company removed their masks. Her waltz had indeed been reserved. She studied the signature, attempting to decipher the graceful script and wondering if perhaps Serena had given her the wrong dance card.
Lucinda gasped, and when Meg looked toward her, she saw that Lucinda’s gaze was focused on the card in Meg’s hand.
“Meg, why did you not say anything?” Lucinda raised her eyes, a glare marring her face.
Meg looked from Lucinda’s scowl to Helen’s wide eyes. “I don’t know what you—”
“Why did you not tell us that you are to waltz with the prince?”
Chapter 18
Meg stared at the signature upon her dance card. It could not belong to Prince Rodrigo, since she had never been introduced to the man. Serena must have confused the dance cards.
Lucinda’s glare was pure poison as she stared at Meg from beneath her mask.
“There must be a mistake.” Meg turned her gaze instead to Helen. “I don’t know how the prince’s name came to be on my dance card.”
Lucinda took her sister’s hand and pulled on it. “Come, Helen. I should not like to waste my time with a concealing wench any longer.” She practically dragged Helen away from Meg and toward where her mother stood talking to Colonel Stackhouse.
Meg did not allow Lucinda’s words to bother her. She glanced back at the card. She would sort this out. She searched the room and finally found Serena standing arm and arm with the duke. They were speaking to a round, balding man. The man wore a fur-lined cape and a golden crown and even carried a scepter. Meg knew he must be Prince Rodrigo. Of course he would choose a costume that reminded everyone of his royal status. She decided that she would wait until Serena moved away from her brother before approaching her with the dilemma of the erroneous dance card.
Meg turned and nearly collided with a man dressed in black. “Pardon m—” she began, but she did not finish. Even behind a mask, his dark eyes made her heart skip a beat and her chest fill with fire.
“Carlo. What are you doing here?” she whispered.
A slow smile spread beneath his black mask, exposing the familiar dimple in his cheek. “I had hoped to dance with you.” He lifted her hand just as the music changed, and then he led her toward the floor. “You look beautiful, Margarita,” he muttered, just loud enough that only she could hear.
Meg’s pulse sped up, and she worried Carlo would feel it in her hand. She allowed herself to let go of her fear for him and enjoy this moment. Her first dance at her first ball, and it was with the man of her dreams. Once they were in position, she glanced toward him. How had he done this? Did nobody notice him slip into the ballroom? She could well see how he would not be recognized. His jacket fit as smartly as any gentleman’s in the room, stretching across his broad shoulders. He held himself with poise. Confidence seemed to flow from him. And with the mask to disguise his features, he surely had fooled anyone who might have wondered. Carlo looked every bit the aristocrat.
Carlo’s gaze remained upon Meg’s face, and she thought the night could not possibly become more enchanting. The music began. Carlo bowed then reached for her hand. They moved through the steps of the dance, and Meg felt as though she were in a dream. Carlo guided her through each turn elegantly. Whenever their hands met, Meg’s heart raced, and when they separated, she could not wait until they touched again. How did a stable hand become such an accomplished dance
r?
The dance ended much sooner than she would have liked, and Meg took Carlo’s hand as he escorted her from the floor. The magic of the moment passed, and Meg began to worry. She looked around the room, finding the balding prince, and tugging on Carlo’s hand to change their direction. If he were to be recognized, it would be a disaster.
“Thank you,” she said when they reached the outer edge of the room. Her throat became tight when she realized that she would never have the chance to dance with Carlo again. She would leave for London in the morning.
When he released her hand, it felt cold.
A group of women stood nearby, and occasionally one of them would steal a glance at Carlo. Meg saw that Lucinda was among them, and their eyes met briefly. Lucinda’s gaze moved to Carlo, and her eyes narrowed.
Meg turned and spoke softly, so as not to be overheard. “Carlo, you must leave. I fear the consequences to you are not worth the risk.”
“I would chance any penalty to dance with you, Margarita.”
Meg’s heart fluttered at his words, but it just as quickly dropped. “I could not bear it if you were punished because of it.”
“I will not be punished.”
She shook her head. “You do not know that. The prince is here tonight. What if he discovers you?”
The edges of Carlo’s mouth curled. “He will not.”
She pursed her lips; the sorrow she’d felt was dispersing as Carlo apparently did not take her concerns seriously. She was becoming irritated at his overconfidence “You cannot be sure. At midnight everyone will remove their mask, and what happens then? You must be gone.”
Beneath his mask, Carlo’s expression altered, becoming serious. “I must speak with you before midnight.”
“You are speaking with me now.”
“Alone.”
Meg shook her head. She could not ruin her reputation and that of the duke and Serena by taking the chance of being discovered alone with a man—and a man beneath her station at that. She could ruin everything if she took such an action. She would not. But she didn’t get the chance to voice her argument before Carlo spoke.
“Please. I must.”
She shook her head again but could feel her resolve wavering as his dark eyes held hers.
“Margarita, I am pleading with you. Meet me in the Oriental drawing room at quarter of twelve.”
“You know very well I cannot do such a thing.” Meg could not meet his gaze. She looked over Carlo’s shoulder as Mr. Newton approached.
Carlo lifted her hand and bent over it. “Tomorrow you leave. I will not have another chance. Do me this one favor, Margarita.” His voice was almost a whisper. Without a backward glance, he strode away.
Meg accepted Mr. Newton’s invitation to dance. Forcing a smile, she attempted to carry on a conversation as her mind spun. Why would he want to speak with her alone? She could think of no reason except to bid her farewell, and the familiar aching of her heart returned in earnest.
She hardly realized the dance had ended and another had begun. Meg’s mind continued to dwell on the inevitable parting as her feet luckily remembered the training the dance master had given. Carlo likely wanted to give her a keepsake, a memento to remember their time together. Perhaps he would ask for a lock of her hair to wear next to his heart as he lived a life devoid of joy because she was not in it. Maybe she would even allow him to steal a kiss. The possibility ignited a warmth in her chest.
The hours passed quickly, Meg moved from partner to partner, hardly remembering one from another and comparing each to Carlo. Although she would have loved to be swept away into a sea of bliss with each dance, it was not the case. Only one man had the ability to heat her skin with every touch.
She smiled and thanked the gentleman who escorted her from the floor, and the music changed again. Meg lungs contracted when she heard the orchestra start the minuet.
Lord Featherstone approached, reaching a hand toward her.
Meg could not even manage to summon a pleasant expression to her face as she accompanied him to the dance floor. Every time the earl clasped her hand or moved past her, Meg’s muscles clenched on their own volition. She kept her eyes firmly on his doublet, never allowing them to rise to his gaze. She answered his questions pleasantly enough, amazed that he had the audacity to speak so agreeably to her after their encounter in the woods. The man owed her an apology.
When the dance finished, Meg took his hand to leave the dance floor.
The earl walked slowly, moving his thumb over the back of Meg’s hand in a caress that made her skin crawl. As they passed the duke’s golden grandfather clock, she realized that if she planned to meet Carlo, she would have to hurry. She pulled her hand from the earl’s and bobbing in a quick curtsey, excused herself.
Meg walked in the direction of the ladies’ withdrawing room, certain that Lord Featherstone would not follow her there. She slipped through the crowd as well as she could in her oversized skirts and descended the grand staircase into the entry hall. She tried to look as if she were not heading to a clandestine rendezvous with a forbidden lover, but how could one hide such a thing? The thought of Carlo sweeping her into his arms made her stomach roll in anticipation. One night. One kiss, and then she would leave him forever.
She hurried through the corridor and into the room, but Carlo was not there. Meg untied her mask. She removed the starched collar from around her neck and the cuffs from her sleeves, rubbing her skin where the stiff fabric had chaffed.
She walked around the room, studying the Chinese tapestries and carved furniture by candlelight. She would miss Thornshire and all the memories associated with it. She looked toward the couch where Carlo had hidden her cloak the night of the tower picnic, and her eyes stung. That was the night everything had changed. The night she realized she had lost her heart to Carlo and, after his kiss, known it would ruin them both if she did not stay away.
Meg turned when she heard footsteps, her heart racing. But it was not Carlo who entered the room. Her chest felt hollow. “Lord Featherstone, what are you doing here?”
The earl held his mask in his hand. “Miss Margaret, come now. There is no need to pretend. Your face was flushed, and you could not look me in the eye. Then you rushed off to a private room, very obviously expecting me to follow. How could I not?”
Meg stared at the earl. “My lord, I assure you; I had no intention of leading you here. I simply wanted a moment to rest alone.”
The earl tipped his head to the side and shook it back and forth. “Margaret, we both know that is not the truth. But if it makes you feel more comfortable, I will play along with your charade of innocence.”
Meg looked toward the doorway. Where was Carlo?
“My dear.” Lord Featherstone continued to walk toward her. “I have wanted to find you alone for some time. There is something I should like to ask you, and it is a matter best discussed privately.”
Meg backed away until the wall prevented her from going farther. Her muscles tensed, and she looked toward the door again. What would Lord Featherstone do to Carlo if he should interrupt? What would the earl do to her if Carlo did not?
The earl was near enough that she had to raise her chin to keep eye contact. “My lord, I must insist you step back.”
“Margaret, your beauty has drawn me to you since the moment we met. Your passion at the Harrisons’ musicale—I have not been able to dismiss it from my mind.” He let out a sigh. “Though you are not accomplished as I would like and you are often outspoken, I am determined that I shall have you for my own.”
Meg put her hands behind her back so the earl wouldn’t see them shaking. She attempted to keep her voice calm. “Sir, how dare you insult me in such an atrocious manner and think it an acceptable proposal of marriage?”
Lord Featherstone raised a brow. “I did not intend you to understand that my offer included marriage.”
A hot stone landed in the pit of Meg’s stomach. Her lungs were tight when she tried to draw a breath
. “My lord, when have I ever led you to believe I would consider such an appalling arrangement?”
“My dearest, I heard what you did not say.” His gaze lowered to her lips and downward to her throat. “I have spoken with Daniel, and I understand your family’s financial situation. I can be very generous.” He brushed his finger over her collarbone.
She felt the blood drain from her face and leaned back against the wall for support, hunching her shoulders. “My brother would never agree to such a thing.”
Lord Featherstone pressed his hand against the wall next to her head. His body trapped her in place. “It’s true that we didn’t discuss the particulars, but you must know, Margaret, this is likely the best offer you can hope to receive. You have no title, no money, your manners are not refined, your speech is . . . well, American. Aside from your beauty and passion, you have nothing to recommend you.”
Meg clamped her hand over her mouth. She was certain her stomach would heave. She pushed at the earl and struggled against him.
The padded front of the earl’s doublet brushed against the pearl beads on her bodice. He slid a hand around the back of her neck. “You should be grateful that I am able to overlook your obvious—”
He did not finish his sentence. His eyes bulged, and he flew backward with a yelp and the sound of tearing fabric.
Carlo held the earl’s torn collar. His face was red with fury. He yelled at the man in a battering of Spanish words that had Lord Featherstone cowering next to the duke’s Chinese tea table.
Meg thought her legs would give way. Tears rushed to her eyes. “You must not strike him, Carlo.” She did not intend for her voice to tremble.
“Carlo?” Lord Featherstone said, looking back at the man towering over him.
Carlo ignored the earl. He took her arm and led her to the couch. “Did he hurt you, Margarita?”
“Margarita?” Lord Featherstone said.
Meg could not bring herself to look at Carlo. Just the thought of the earl’s words squeezed her ribs and burned her skin. And Carlo had heard everything. Her humiliation at Lord Featherstone’s offensive proposal turned sour in her stomach.
Miss Burton Unmasks a Prince Page 16
