Straightening her face so that she didn’t give her sisters’ game away to her mother or sister-in-law, she prepared to be welcomed.
The new Countess of Braithwaite was undeniably beautiful, with red-blonde hair like a Highland sunrise, and a gaze at once shy and direct. Her brilliant green eyes were particularly lovely behind the jeweled mask, but they also held humor, and her lips were used to smiling. Frances thought she would like her.
In response to the countess’s greeting, Frances opted for a small, mysterious smile and a silent curtsey. She wasn’t entirely sure such tactics would work on Gervaise or her mother who stood at his other side.
Neither Gervaise nor the dowager countess were wearing masks. Frances looked each boldly in the eye as she curtsied and smiled, prepared to burst into delighted laughter as soon as they recognized her. She was almost disappointed when neither did. Gervaise seemed more concerned with how his wife coped with what was no doubt her first major social duty, and the dowager countess had far too much dignity to pry into the identity behind the masks. No doubt she disapproved of the whole thing. Serena, and possibly Eleanor, the new countess, had obviously talked her into it. Or overruled her.
“Drat it, you are too good at this,” Ariadne murmured in her ear. “Your own mother does not know you!”
“Shall we call it another draw?” Frances suggested.
“Certainly not. The night is young.” Ariadne glided away, much to France’s amused frustration. If they did not stay together, how would they know if the other was recognized? Trust, she supposed, accepting a glass of champagne from Harry, the second footman, with a murmur of thanks. He didn’t recognize her either. As she had told Ariadne, it was all a matter of expectation, and no one expected her to be here.
It was much easier from her own point of view. She picked out Serena quite easily, play-flirting with her fan for the delectation of an older gentleman who was surely Mr. Winslow. And there, by the open terrace door, with the midnight black hair, was Kate Crowmore who had inexplicably married the new vicar of Blackhaven’s church. Her old friend Gillie was dancing with none other than Dax, the same Lord Daxton who had once almost ruined Serena. How come he was even invited?
Up on the gallery, as the music ended, the girls waved to someone below. Frances suspected it was Miss Grey, their old governess who had married the tenant of Haven Hall. Subtly, the lady made a shooing gesture with her fan while turning to speak politely to her masked partner. It seemed the children rightly trusted her not to give them away.
Frances couldn’t help smiling. She wondered if she could sneak up there and swear the children to secrecy. Tonight, even Maria seemed very much the mischievous child, so much so that Frances wondered if she was mistaken in her suspicions about the young officer.
“Now, I am devastated,” claimed a foreign yet definitely familiar voice next to her.
With an unexpected thrill of pleasure, Frances turned and beheld a tall man in a scarlet cloak and a black mask. It could indeed have been the same masked face she had seen in the draper’s shop. It certainly sounded like him. Although by what she glimpsed of his clothes beneath the domino, he was now much better dressed.
He placed his hand over his heart in a gesture both humorous and rueful. “I thought you were smiling at me. And now I see such favor is bestowed instead upon the orchestra.”
Frances laughed, for he was almost right. “Do I have reason to smile at you?” she asked. “Do you know me, sir?”
His lips curved in a slow, beguiling smile. His eyes, half-shadowed behind the mask, leapt with innate turbulence. For no reason that she could fathom, her heart thudded.
“No,” he said. “Not yet. Beyond the fact that I did not rob you.”
So, it was the man from the draper’s shop.
“I cannot see the point of waiting for someone else to introduce us,” he said. “Especially since you smiled at me.”
“Only I didn’t.”
“You did in the shop. And you might again, if you got to know me.”
“I might dislike you intensely,” she countered.
“Shall we dance, and see which way the wind blows?”
She could already feel her lips trying to curve, so she accepted gracefully. After all, it was a ball. Dancing was the main purpose. Her partner took the champagne glass from her fingers and set it down on the nearest table. The orchestra, as though commanded by him, struck up a waltz.
As his arm encircled her waist, excitement soared. It seemed a lifetime ago that she had last waltzed, and yet she loved dancing. Her partner held her like a perfect gentleman should although he danced with a touch more flamboyance than she was used to.
“You are not English, are you?” she observed.
His lips quirked. “No, I am not.”
“Where are you from?”
“Guess,” he challenged.
“I think your accent is Russian.”
He inclined his dark head. “Your ear is good… or my English is bad. Yes, the accent is Russian. And where are you from, madam?”
“I was born nearby.”
“Ah, you are a local lady.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Is that bad?”
“Not in the least. I shall be able to call on you during my stay.”
“But you don’t know where I shall be.”
He smiled and spun her around. “I shall discover your name at the unmasking,”
She smiled back. “Perhaps.”
They danced in silence for a few moments. His hand was warm at her back. Behind the mask, his eyes glittered. She guessed they, like he, was permanently stormy in character. Which was strangely exciting, like his foreignness, his sheer differentness.
“So where is your husband, madam?” he asked softly.
“He is not here.”
The mask moved, as if his eyebrows had flown up. “He did not wish the honor of escorting you?”
“He has more important things to do than dance at silly masquerades,” she said lightly.
“Then he is a dull dog.” It wasn’t quite a question.
Irritated, Frances snapped, “Of course he is not. And at this moment, I do not see you dancing attendance on your wife.”
He smiled. “You might yet be surprised. But how do you know I have one? And if I had, how could I attend her and you at the same time?”
“I don’t know, but I would like to see you try.”
“Do I perceive a cruel streak in you, madam? Or merely a healthy sense of the ridiculous?”
“Guess,” she invited, echoing his earlier challenge, and he let out a hiss of laughter.
“Now I have to know you better. Will you dance with me again? The supper dance, perhaps.”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. The hired carriage was ordered to return at midnight, but she could have already fled by then, or be discovered and in disgrace. Or handing over the Torridon rubies to let Ariadne strut off to some gaming hell in them.
“You are awaiting a better offer?” he guessed, his voice curiously flat.
“Oh no, that would be rude. To be truthful, sir, you intrigue me, so I would like to dance with you again, but my life is complicated. There are circumstances beyond my control.”
His eyes narrowed, then lifted, as though gazing about them for some threat. “What circumstances?”
Touched by the stranger’s concern, she said, “Oh, I assure you, I am not in danger. Except of doing something foolish.”
“Such as what?”
“Repeating mistakes,” she said ruefully.
His eyes held hers. For a moment, she felt dizzy, as though she knew him, as though he saw everything about her in that one penetrating, stormy glance.
“What heinous mistake can you possibly have committed?” he asked, sounding more foreign than ever. She did not think he was French or Spanish or Italian. And he did not sound German. Perhaps he was Swedish. Or Russian. With difficulty, she dragged her mind back to his question.
“I
act on impulse,” she confessed, “and then cannot go back on my word.”
“Have you promised something you cannot give?”
“I have promised something I should not give,” she said ruefully. “Or even lend, which is what I wagered.”
“Lending is not irreversible,” he pointed out.
“True, but that is not the height of my crime.”
“So much sin in one small lady,” he teased. “Tell me all and I shall make it go away.”
For a moment, she was actually tempted. His eyes had calmed, leaving them almost familiar, and his voice was so kind… But the light moved as they danced, casting half his face into shadow for an instant. And she remembered that he was a stranger, and that she didn’t even know what she wanted or how to achieve it. More than that, there was a hint of danger in his flirting, a purpose she could only guess at, and though it excited her, she was also wary.
“You are very good,” she said at last. “But I believe I want to fix it by myself.”
He inclined his head. “If you need help, you can find me here.”
“In the ballroom?” she teased.
“Wherever you wish. For instance, we could meet on the terrace in a little over one hour—just before the supper dance.”
She stared at him, curiously disappointed. “That sounds more like an assignation than an offer to help.”
“Does it matter what you call it, so long as it is what you want?” His thumb moved, softly caressing her gloved hand.
She tilted her chin. “But it isn’t what I want in the slightest. I believe I am fatigued and would prefer to sit out the rest of the dance.”
For no reason that she could fathom, he smiled. Was he actually glad to be rejected? Despite the heat in his eyes and his voice?
“Forgive my forwardness. I shall not ask again, if you choose to finish our dance. Though I confess I want nothing more than to be alone with you while I hold you in my arms, closer than this.”
“That will never happen,” she said flatly. “I am a married woman, sir. Vulgar liaisons hold no charm for me.”
His expression was secretive again, yet the turbulence still raged behind his eyes. He said, “Your husband is a lucky man.”
Her lips twisted. “I wish he was.”
He was silent for a few moments, then, “I will help you, you know, with or without assignations.”
“You are kind,” she said with a quick smile. “I think. Are you a soldier, sir?”
He blinked, no doubt at the sudden change of subject. “How did you guess?”
“There is something familiar in the way you hold yourself.” And me.
*
Lord Torridon had recognized his wife as soon as she entered the ballroom. It wasn’t difficult since she wore the same dark blue domino and silver mask she had bought from Mr. Jones this morning.
When Frances arrived, he was lounging against the wall near the entrance, single-mindedly watching the new arrivals. It was something of a miracle that she didn’t spot him at once, too. He was sure Ariadne Marshall did. But Frances was acting now, her attention all focused on making sure none of her family recognized her through the mask. At least she and Mrs. Marshall did not cling to each other, but went their separate ways. And Torridon followed his wife.
Of course, he was discreet. Whatever she was up to, whatever trouble she was in, or was causing, he had no desire to create a scandal. And so, he strolled after her, watching only out of the corner of his eye, to see if she was looking for anyone, meeting anyone…
In several bouts of painful jealousy, he had already tortured himself with the possibility that she had come home to Blackhaven in disguise in order to meet some old lover in secret, someone to whom she would rather be married. Though he struggled to think who this could be. Most of the dashing officers once barracked in the town had been sent to join Wellington on the Peninsula last year and had not yet returned home.
Of course, it did not have to be a local man. It could be some fashionable London guest staying at the castle or in the town. But her gaze glossed over Lord Wickenden, who was the likeliest candidate to Torridon’s mind, and rested briefly on Lord Daxton. However, there was nothing loverlike in her observation—the opposite, in fact.
She seemed more interested in the children cavorting in the gallery. It was the way she smiled to herself that made his heart turn over, and although he hadn’t meant to approach her this early in the evening, he did, dredging the words from somewhere, and the accent, as before, from the mad Russian captain with whom he had enjoyed a crazy night of adventure.
He didn’t know whether to be delighted or appalled when Frances responded as she did. But even the most exacting husband could hardly condemn his wife for accepting an invitation to dance at a ball. Their conversation thrilled and unnerved him, flooding him with emotion, because for the first time in months he held her in his arms. It was a most strange encounter, because although they were both pretending, and she clearly had no idea who he was, he had the impression that on some level, they were both being honest. As one could only be with strangers.
She did not appear to mind his boldness or the freedom of the way he chose to dance. In fact, he was sure she was about to tell him why she was here before she clammed up. In retrospect, trying to make an assignation with her might have been a mistake. At the time, he hadn’t even known whether or not he wanted her to accept. Having deliberately enticed her, though, he could hardly admit to his true identity.
Why didn’t she guess? He had known her immediately, even behind the concealing veil. Was a mask, a fake Russian accent, and a deliberate huskiness in his voice truly enough to fool a loving wife?
“Are you a soldier, sir?” she asked curiously, at last.
“How did you guess?”
“Something familiar in the way you hold yourself.”
A breath of laughter took him by surprise. He realized suddenly that he carried himself differently as a civilian. By adopting Captain Savarin’s accent, he seemed to have re-found something of his old life, from the days when he had known what he was doing and could look after a company of men in battle far more easily than he could take care of his own wife or the estate that should have been Andrew’s. Andrew’s death had brought him home to grieve, and to take up the reluctant reigns of his responsibility as earl. He, Alan, was the one who had chosen to risk his life in war. It should not have been Andrew who died.
Frances, so full of fun and happiness, had lifted him out of that trough and given him hope. He’d never told her that, merely tried his best to be a worthy husband to her. And somehow, he had failed. She had not retained her happiness with him. In that instant, despite the anger and frustration still simmering away within him, he would have willingly died just to bring back her joy. His arms ached to fold her against him. For the first time, he hated the dishonesty of this meeting. He wanted it to be in private, face to face with no masks, only truth between them.
But he could only gaze down at his wife’s beautiful face, at once dearly familiar and utterly mysterious.
“I wonder,” he said, “if we are blinded by faces, and only see the person beneath when that face is hidden?”
Her lips quirked upward in the start of the smile he loved. “That is a very profound observation for a masked ball.”
“I am profundity incarnate,” he said flippantly.
Her smile broadened and died. Something, a frown perhaps, tugged at her embroidered silver mask. “Someone has hurt you by dishonesty.”
He almost stumbled. “That would be harsh,” he managed at last, only just hanging on to his accent. “I cannot tell what is her dishonesty and what is my own blindness.”
She stared at him. For an instant, he thought she had seen through the mask at last, and tried to prepare for whatever deluge of fury or grief or fear was about to engulf them. He would have to take her quickly out of the crowd—onto the terrace perhaps, despite its unenticing cold and dampness.
But her ey
es, glistening with unshed tears, were not seeing him. And their dance was coming to an end.
She tried to smile. “I think you have helped me after all, sir.”
As the music finished, their hands parted and he released her. He bowed from habit, though every nerve was thrown into panic because she was about to walk away from him.
She said, “I hope you might solve your troubles, too. And I hope we meet again.”
“As do I,” he managed.
And then she was gone, flitting through the ballroom like a butterfly through a field of flowers. He had no idea where she was going, but he didn’t want her to leave.
*
“She’s here,” he told Lord Braithwaite a few minutes later when they encountered each other near the cardroom door.
“Here? At the ball?” Braithwaite’s shoulders sagged with relief for a moment before he straightened them again. “Thank God. How did she get past me? Not to mention my mother!”
“By acting. Neither of you were expecting her. You were greeting shiploads of people at the same time.”
“Then how did you spot her?”
“I danced with her,” Torridon said vaguely. Since Braithwaite had seemed convinced his sister would turn up in Blackhaven safe and well within the next day or so, and had not seemed inclined to worry, Torridon hadn’t mentioned discovering her at the hotel last night, or the draper’s this morning. Besides, some silly yet unshakeable belief that he was keeping faith with his wife by keeping her secret held him silent. “If it’s any consolation to you, she didn’t know me.”
“What the devil is she up to?” Braithwaite demanded.
“I’m not sure,” Torridon said, “but I suspect it involves Ariadne Marshall, who is also here.”
The Wicked Wife (Blackhaven Brides Book 9) Page 6
