To obtain entrance to Almack’s would bring her to the notice of all sorts of eligible, wealthy bachelors. After all, the place was reputed to be so dull that no one but a man in desperate need of a wife would bother even going there. She heaved a great sigh.
“Duchess, I swear boredom has never looked so enticing.” A man garbed in a knight’s costume lowered his eyes conspicuously to Titania’s chest.
She looked up—and up—as he was an exceedingly tall knight, her breath catching as she recognized the watery blue eyes glittering covetously at her. Titania had known her knight was not Lord Worthington, but she had just as surely known that the last person she wanted it to be was Lord Gratwick.
Before he could utter another word she scurried away without replying, panniers swinging wildly. She felt him watching her, even without looking back, and imagined the satisfied smirk on his face. Miss Tynte grabbed her arm as she sped by.
“Duchess, where are you going so quickly? Lord George Ward, or should I say Blackbeard the Pirate, was hoping you would honor him with a dance. He has been searching for you all evening,” she said pointedly, gripping Titania’s upper arm with an intensity that would allow for no escape. Titania curtsied, unable to do anything else with her friend’s hand still maintaining absolute possession of her arm.
“Thank you, yes, I would care to dance.” Miss Tynte relinquished her hold and Lord George held his arm out to her. She placed her fingers lightly on the sleeve of his coat.
“I must commend you, Miss Stanhope,” he gushed. “You look so...so...”
On display? Titania thought. She could not seem to look him in the eye, since both his orbs were firmly fastened on her orbs. And he was not looking at her eyes.
“Enchanting!” he declared with a triumphant tone. It was clear he had been sending his few brain cells into a tizzy looking for a word that was not nearly as lascivious as what he was thinking.
“Thank you, my lord, and may I say you are a very convincing pirate.” Lord George gave a middance bow in reply, a very elegant gesture halted midway as his gold earring got hooked, somehow, into the lace of her bodice. Thankfully, it was the upper part of the shoulder and not lower down.
“Oof, Miss Stanhope, I cannot imag—” His words were muffled by her upper arm, which had reflexively grasped him as he began to stagger a little. She felt his damp forehead graze her sternum and his odor—a mixture of sweat, sugar, and wine—assailed her nostrils.
“Lord George, could you, that is, can you possibly...?” Titania felt her face heating up with color, and she twitched her hair forward to cover her face. She had to lean forward, just over his neck, and she saw it begin to glow a bright cherry red.
He was frantically trying to remove the earring from something, either himself or her gown. She tried to breathe deeply, but that in itself caused a problem; he was so close to her bosom every one of her breaths was answered by a little pant from him.
“Uh, how is it going?” she asked, feeling his fingers on the strap of her gown. If she got out of this without losing her top or her dignity, she would consider herself very lucky.
“Fine, that is, I seem to have encountered a problem.” He turned his head as much as he was able to look at her. “Miss Stanhope, I am dreadfully sorry. I cannot think—wait a minute, I think I have got it.” He buried his nose into her clavicle, gave a little jerk, and held onto her as they both stumbled.
“Well. At least your earring is not stuck.” They had both fallen on the floor in a heap, his head in her lap, her skirt poofed out around her like a mushroom. She scrambled out from underneath him and tried to smooth her skirts.
He raised his head, staring straight at her breasts. “Uh, uh,” he stammered, “I am sorry, Miss Stanhope. I do not know what happened. My earring, your gown—it is all a muddle.”
“Please, my lord, do not concern yourself. I am fine. Do you think you might help me get up? I would like to return to my cousin, please.”
He nodded, slowly lifting himself off the floor. He turned to her, still not looking at her face, and held his hand out so she could rise. Once they were both upright and relatively steady on their feet, he held his arm out in the most chivalric gesture possible, as if he had not just been within betrothal distance of her.
His mother stood with Miss Tynte among the rest of the chaperones. Her narrow eyes narrowed even more when she spied her son’s vibrantly hued face. “George, my dear, could you get us all some ratafia? I believe we could use some refreshment.”
“Hopefully,” his mother murmured to Miss Tynte, apparently thinking she would not be able to be heard by Titania, “he will be able to lose that flush between the refreshment table and back here again. I do wish he had inherited little bit more of my sense and a little bit less of his father’s gustatory passion. Although it’s not food that’s got him so agitated tonight.” The two ladies chuckled. Miss Tynte cleared her throat.
“Perhaps you can get him married off to a woman who will understand him and protect him from a world that is just a little bit smarter than he is.” She looked over at Titania, who was trying hard to look really, really dumb.
She knew Miss Tynte wanted her to settle for Lord George. Claire was equally pushing about Lord Gratwick, and Lord Worthington—the man who made her breath come faster and her bosom heave, even as it threatened to spill over its slight constraints—clearly had honorable intentions, but he was the last man she could consider.
If anything, he should be on the hunt for a wealthy wife. That he would even make his intentions so plain to her the previous afternoon must mean he did not care that they were both destitute.
Even if he were willing to live on love, she could not. Could she convince him a short burst of shared passion would be all she could offer—and would it be enough?
“My dear lady,” a voice interrupted, “would you grace me with a dance? My armor clanks somewhat alarmingly when I move, but it is no less loud than the beating of my heart when you are near.”
Titania raised one eyebrow as she absorbed Lord Gratwick’s comment; even when he was being overly unctuous, he had not been this excessive in his flattery. She bowed her head slightly and gently laid her fingers on his sleeve. She wanted to discover if, indeed, he knew her secrets.
“Ah, the delight of dancing with such a beauty, the most lovely lady in the room.”
“Thank you, Lord Gr—that is, Sir Knight. You flatter me.”
“No, I only speak the truth. Who else”—he waved a negligent hand—“could compare? Your face, your form—stunning!”
“Mmm, yes, thank you.”
“And even your nose has a certain charm.”
“Surely not, my lord.”
“Ah, but to me, Miss Stanhope, it does.” Gratwick cleared his throat portentously. “I wish to speak to you of a matter of mutual concern. Can I persuade you to meet me in, say, two dances?”
Oh, dear. Was it a proposal or something more sinister—if that were even possible?
“Yes, my lord, I would be happy to. Let me see,” she said, consulting her dance card, which she knew full well had barely been written on, “I am free for the quadrille, which is in three dances. Meet me by the refreshment table. We can adjourn to those chairs over there,” she said, nodding toward some chairs half-hidden by an enormous potted plant.
Lord Gratwick frowned, saying, “That is not the place for a private conversation, and I have something I particularly wish to convey to you. But it would not do to sully your reputation; rumor has it that the ladies of Almack’s might actually unbend enough to give you a voucher, despite your family history?”
Titania stiffened. “My lord, you are a friend of my friend, but that does not give you leave to make unsubstantiated references to my family. And,” she continued, her eyes widening in surprise, “it was only half an hour ago that the duke promised to look into the matter?”
Gratwick finished, “And only, let’s see, fifteen minutes since he spoke to one of those dragons, I am not
sure which one. I have my sources. And I have knowledge regarding you, as well. We will meet there,” he said, pointing to the corner of the room, “and if the arena is not suitable for what I have to impart, we will simply find another spot. After all, finding things—eighteenth-century costumes, long-lost relatives, husbands—is a very singular thing to do, is it not?” And with that, he walked off, leaving Titania rooted to her spot as she reviewed what he had just said.
Singular. He had to know. More importantly, however, what did he want from her to keep quiet about it? Titania knew the column was not so shocking in itself; after all, her primary intent was to make her readers laugh as they enjoyed her marriage quest.
No, the problem, as she knew, was that she was actually a member of the ton, and her quest was a deadly reality. How would any prospective suitor feel if it were known she would say yes to a proposal just because of the state of his bankbook? Not to mention that ladies simply did not do anything so forward as to pen a column for a newspaper that anybody could read.
She sidled next to Miss Tynte, hoping her emotions did not show in her face. She settled in next to her chaperone and discreetly consulted her dance card to see if she was spoken for the next dance. No, she was not; she relaxed a little, looking around her as she tried to gather her torn shreds of dignity around herself.
“Duchess! So lovely to see you!” A large, thin man dressed as a king came strolling up to her, his voice booming from high above her head. Titania had no trouble recognizing Alistair, even behind his mask; his gait, height, and gray-streaked hair gave him away, not to mention his outlandish costume. He wore a large, golden crown amply studded with jewels of all colors. His large, pointed shoes were made of purple velvet, with contrasting stripes of fabric running down his foot. His hose was a particularly vibrant shade of pink, whereas his vest and coat were in slightly different shades of orange.
He reminded Titania of a beautiful sunset. “Miss Stanhope”—he swooped her a deep bow as he drew closer—“would you do me the honor and bestow a dance on your king, King Oberon?”
Titania laughed out loud as she realized whom Alistair was dressed as: Oberon, king and partner to Titania in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
“Yes, of course. How could I refuse my own king?” Titania was flattered that he felt so strongly as to make such a cake of himself at the masquerade, but perhaps it was not as difficult as she would think; he did seem to thrive on being outlandish.
She let Alistair guide her onto the dance floor, energetically guiding her through the steps. He was really an excellent dancer, and there was something so charming about him; it was good he did not have enough wealth to afford her, since she did not want to saddle herself with a more brightly colored version of her father anyway.
Intuitively, she recognized the drive toward destruction, the disregard for convention, and the inner anguish that seemed to be the motivation for his behavior. Her father had had that, too, and she would be paying for his transgressions for the rest of her life.
“What is it that spurs you to such outrageous action, Mr. Farrell?” she asked, tilting her head up to look at his eyes through his mask. “You look like a popinjay, but your demeanor is far more sober. If I had less of a questioning mind, I would think you were nothing but a languid dandy, the epitome of what my brother is trying to be. He’s been reading too much Byron, you know,” she confided.
Alistair seemed a bit thrown at her question—the first time Titania had seen him at a loss for words—but recovered quickly, only clutching her hand a bit more tightly as an indication that what she had said had actually affected him. “My dear lady,” he chortled, “please do not take my sartorial splendor as anything other than an homage to the great tailors of London. They are my guides, since what can an ex-soldier possibly know about style?”
Since it was clear he had no intention of answering her question seriously, she gave a mental shrug and decided to enjoy the experience of a graceful partner in silence. At the dance’s end, Alistair led her back to Miss Tynte, saying slyly as he left, “My lady, you make an excellent consort for this broken king. Do save me the next Scottish reel, since I do not believe I can withstand lengthy conversation.”
With that, he whirled around in a flurry of color, accosting a startled footman and grabbing two glasses of champagne, downing them one after the other.
Titania shook her head at his careless consumption, then gazed out at the crowd, hoping to see Lord Worthington. Was he never coming? Perhaps he was here, but in such a disguise she could not recognize him? No, she knew she would feel his presence if he were here, and she was definitely not feeling anything but naked right now. Just as she was beginning to wonder if she had gotten dressed—or undressed—for naught, she spied a tall, barely dressed man being announced at the portal.
It was him, and he was nearly as naked as she. She hopped up and down unconsciously in excitement, causing more than a few gentlemen to get a bit dizzy with trying to follow her assets with their eyes. The movement caught Lord Worthington’s attention, and he smiled at her, smiling even deeper as his eyes raked her up and down. As he moved determinedly toward her, a footman intercepted him, handing him a note of some kind. Perhaps Lord Gratwick was sending him notes, too?
Titania’s giggle was stifled as she saw Edwin’s face pale. His mouth barked out a question of some sort, and his whole demeanor changed in an instant. The footman nodded in assent and moved to one of the side doors, Edwin following as closely behind him as possible. What could possibly be wrong?
“NO, BLAST YOU, I WILL not wear that ridiculous hat!” Edwin yelped, throwing the offending item on the floor.
Henri sighed dramatically, picking it up and advancing determinedly toward his friend. “Edwin, you boor, must I remind you that you are attending a masquerade ball and therefore you must be in costume? And since you have chosen to attend as this misbegotten man-fairy, you must look the part! Now, will you wear this hat, or will you be attending the party only as a half-naked man? For sure, your fellow countrymen will be able to discern the disgraceful North American savage in you!”
Edwin grunted at Henri in submission and allowed him to place the hat—a crown, really, made of twisting leaves and the occasional flower—onto his head. His ardor had convinced his brain to attend the masquerade dressed as A Midsummer Night’s Dream’s Puck, Shakespeare’s “shrewd and knavish sprite,” the mischievous goblin who cast a love spell on Queen Titania. When he had first envisioned it, it had seemed clever; now, with a shirt open to the waist exposing his chest, his legs encased in green hose with only a few twining vines of ivy to make him relatively decent for mixed company, it seemed awfully stupid. Would Society’s duennas be shocked at seeing a half—or perhaps more truthfully, three-quarters—naked man at one of their functions, even if it were in the spirit of a masquerade? Could he possibly manage to wear a plant on his head while simultaneously dancing and keeping his identity secret until the unmasking? It was really too late to be asking himself these rather pointed questions, he thought, glancing at the clock that appeared to be glaring back at him.
He sighed again, allowed Henri to drape the ivy more discreetly around his slim hips, and headed for his carriage, thanking the weather gods that it was not too cold for him to venture outdoors barely clothed. The carriage ride to the Landons’ was long enough for Edwin to regain his natural composure; after all, he had been in a boxing ring in much less, although there were never ladies present.
Edwin ascended the wide, curved stairs to the front door, then ascended another, even more curved staircase to the main ballroom, where he glimpsed blazing candles, flirting misses, raking gentlemen, scandal-brewing matrons—in short, Society at its finest. He took a deep breath before telling the butler his name.
“Puck!” the butler announced in stentorian tones. He inhaled again, noticing several young ladies’ eyes widening, and strode into the room, determined to find Titania as soon as possible so he could get on with this
courtship stuff.
Just as he spotted her, a footman appeared on his right-hand side. He held out a silver plate with a note on it, gesturing toward Edwin. “A note for you, sir,” he intoned somewhat unnecessarily. Edwin frowned, wondering who found it so crucial to summon him that they had to send a note, then shrugged as he slid his finger into the envelope and drew the plain piece of cream-colored paper from its cover. It was brief, direct, and shook Edwin to the core:
Edwin:
Please meet me in the duke’s library immediately. The footman will show you the way.
Worthington
His father. After so long and at such an inopportune time. A meeting with his father, however, was the one thing that could tear him away from his bluestocking. He turned to the waiting footman, then gestured to the closest doors.
“The library; I assume you can show me the way?” The footman bowed, then turned on his heel and walked to the exit, Edwin following in his wake. The two men walked silently down a long, narrow hallway, passing the gaming room, where it sounded as if some of the husbands were busy losing their wives’ dowries, an antechamber where curious servants were all in varying degrees of servitude, and a small room where the duke’s children and their friends were having their own party, since they were not allowed to be at the adults’.
Just as Edwin was beginning to wonder if the library was even on this continent, they arrived in front of an outsized oak door. The footman rapped on it with his knuckles, and without waiting, opened it, bowing for Edwin to step inside. It was a large room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and rows and rows of books. A large globe stood in the corner, a huge, clearly masculine desk dominated another corner, and big wing-back chairs were scattered around, making the entire room look like a gentleman’s club. Two men were already inside, Edwin’s father and another man, who Edwin presumed was the duke.
He paused at the doorway, aware suddenly of the ludicrous sight he must present: a half-naked prodigal son scurrying to meet his father’s peremptory summons. He squared his shoulders, drew a deep breath, and advanced into the room, removing his mask as he approached the two men.
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