Masked Love (A Christmas Regency Novella)

by Nicole Zoltack

“Thank you,” he breathed, and he reached for his own mask.

  A hand waving caught Isabelle’s gaze. Lady Theodosia was approaching.

  “Have a wonderful Christmas,” Isabelle said, then fixed her mask back into place and brushed past him.

  “Have fun decorating tomorrow.”

  She faltered, almost caving and glancing behind, but she held her head high and walked with purpose to Lady Theodosia. They left as they had entered, sneaking out the door, and disappeared into the darkness and the safety of the Haywood carriage.

  Viscount Adrian Wingrave rubbed his aching temples. He had drunk too much the previous night, and the early Christmas Eve sun was far too bright for his sensitive eyes. Squinting against the light, he spied the Haywood Manor. The white stucco façade reminded him of his own home. Lights shone through the bow windows. Ivy draped across the wrought iron balcony. He strolled down the entranceway, past two columns, to the black front door, which opened before he could knock.

  A butler bid him follow to the parlor. Adrian steeled his nerves, wishing he had taken another swallow of alcohol upon awakening this morning.

  The house was immaculate, the rug a nice weave, imported from France if he had to guess. Pink paint colored the walls, a few paintings wrapped in gold frames scattered throughout the room.

  Enough stalling. He drew his attention to the people in the room. A stern-looking woman whose wrinkles disappeared when she gave him a nervous smile. At her side stood a tall man, Lord Haywood. He held out a monster-sized hand that Adrian shook. They pumped twice and released.

  “You must be Lord Adrian,” Lord Haywood said in a deep voice that echoed slightly.

  “Yes, Lord Haywood, Lady Haywood.” He nodded toward the lady then trailed them deeper into the room. The couple stood in front of a red velvet love seat, leaving an open space for him in a single chair. Its twin was occupied with a beautiful lady. Blond curls trailed down her one shoulder, the rest of her hair twisted into a fancy updo. Her dress was modest but elegant, and she stared at him, her hands clasped on her lap, but he could easily sense her unease and apprehension, for he shared it as well.

  He had to school his feature to not reveal his disappointment, even though her blond hair and blue eyes were like a swift punch to his stomach. He’d known the chances of the lady who had bewitched him the previous night being the same as the one he was to be pledged to were almost nonexistent. All night long, he had dreamt of her, stared into her melted chocolate eyes, danced with her, stolen a kiss or two. The thought of never seeing her again caused his chest to ache.

  The lady slid to her feet with grace. She held out her hand. After the slightest hesitation, he pressed his lips to it. “Lady Theodosia, I presume?”

  She giggled and retrieved her hand. “You assume correctly.”

  She and her mother sat down; then the men did as well. Lord Haywood directed the conversation, and Adrian answered when he was expected to, but his mind refused to focus.

  “How does that sound?”

  He snapped out of his thoughts and turned to Lady Theodosia, hoping his inattentiveness had gone unnoticed.

  Thankfully she continued speaking, as he had no idea what she had been referring to. “A walk around the property?”

  Adrian agreed. They retrieved coats, and they, as well as her mother, adjourned outside. The land was nice enough, and Adrian paid more attention to its greenery, the lush trees and the sloping hills, than his future bride. He had held no illusion; he had always known he would not marry for love. If he had to guess, Lady Theodosia also was not the happiest about the arrangement. Perhaps he should strive to get to know her better. After all, they would be spending a lot of time together—the rest of their lives.

  “Tell me about yourself,” he said, breaking the silence.

  Lady Theodosia glanced behind them to where her mother was trailing to ensure they did nothing improper. “I … I would much rather hear about you.”

  Last evening, words had come so easily. Adrian had been to several balls and danced with many ladies, but none had captivated his attention as much as the silver and black-masked one. In a way, he almost wished he had never met her, that she had not affected his heart so. Not that he would say he loved her, having only just met her, but she occupied his thoughts ever since she had hurried off and left his side.

  The lady was casting sideway glances at him. A few fish swam within the waters of a small pond. It wouldn’t turn cold for another month; no ice would grace water for some time yet.

  He stopped beside the pond, faced her, and cleared his throat. Ignoring her was hardly becoming of a gentleman. “I enjoy fox hunting,” he offered, figuring that to be a safe subject.

  “Fox hunting.” She shuddered. “My father enjoys the sport.”

  “You seem to not care for it.”

  “Not at all. It seems a trifle … barbaric.”

  “Barbaric? How so?” His first impulse had been to laugh, but he suppressed it, not wishing to injure her feelings. A bird flittered from one tree to another. How he envied its freedom.

  She used her fingers to tick off a list containing far more complaints than he imagined anyone ever having against the sport, including her disagreement over using hounds to hunt the fox.

  “In our correspondences, your father promised me we would enjoy a hunt on Boxing Day,” he broke in when she paused to take a breath.

  Lady Theodosia wrinkled her small nose. “I heard.” She smiled weakly and gestured for them to resume their trek.

  Adrian stifled a sigh and wondered what the masked lady’s opinion was concerning the matter. He truly must stop thinking of her. She was his past. Lady Theodosia was his future. Deciding to try again, he said, “You know, during one race I partook in, a woman did as well.”

  “No!” She gasped and covered her mouth, horror in her blue eyes.

  “Yes. She seemed to quite enjoy herself, although she had stayed toward the back.”

  Lady Theodosia seemed not to know how to respond, but that was just as well as they had circled the property. A maid was on the balcony, adding more ivy to the railing. The sight of the Christmas decoration again turned his thoughts to the brunette maiden, and they reentered the manor in silence.

  Humming “Deck the Halls” beneath her breath, Isabelle travelled throughout the manor, decorating as she went. She placed vases filled with hawthorns and Christmas roses in each room. After adding a few more red and green ribbons to the kissing bough, she hung it inside the threshold of the house. Made up of evergreens and willow, with paper flowers she had prepared herself, it was by far the nicest kissing bough Isabelle had ever seen. Stepping back, she admired her work then adjusted the baby Jesus doll.

  That done, she returned to the balcony. She had meant to add another wrapping of ivy before Lady Theodosia’s suitor had arrived so he could see the house in all of its festival happiness, but she had gotten caught up changing her lady in and out of five different dresses. The lady had been unable to decide which would impress him when her mother had settled it for her and pulled out a simple, yet sophisticated dress. The blue matched Lady Theodosia’s eyes, and even she seemed pleased with the choice.

  Now humming “Here We Come a-Wassailing,” Isabelle worked efficiently, her fingers tickling and encouraging the ivy to behave and move as she wished. Down below, she spied three figures. Two she recognized instantly: her lady and the lady of the house. The third was a tall man. Not Lord Haywood, so he must be Lady Theodosia’s suitor.

  From her vantage point, she couldn’t make out his features, but something in the manner in which he held himself seemed familiar. How curious.

  She rushed downstairs to see if Lady Theodosia would like to change into another outfit before their meal. Her shoes scrapped against the floor as she abruptly halted. Her lady’s man was talking to Lord Haywood, his voice carrying from the parlor.

  Recognition squeezed her heart.

  The masked man, the one she had mentally decorated the house for,
pretending the manor was theirs, was here. Terror seized her. For the first time, shame for her position, for her need to work, filled her. She had never before begrudged her lot in life. She had a place to live, food to eat, clothes to wear—what more did she need? But one night changed all that. She had tasted the sweetness the other side had to offer, and she longed for a man she could never have, for not only was he engaged, but he was promised to her charge!

  Isabelle backed away, ready to turn and run and hide, when Lady Theodosia appeared at her side. “There you are, Isabelle. Come.”

  Her head down, she followed her lady down the hall to the stairwell. Adam, the butler, was there, as was he, and Isabelle kept her face turned aside. Her feet betrayed her, and she stumbled, almost bumping into him. She mumbled, “Pardon me,” her voice barely audible.

  “Isabelle! Apologize at once. This is Viscount Adrian Wingrave. My … my husband-to-be.”

  Isabelle could feel her cheeks turn red. “My apologies, my good lord.”

  He waved her away, nodded to Lady Theodosia. The butler and the lord walked up the stairs first.

  “Stop being so clumsy,” the lady said, nose in the air.

  Beyond shocked and hurt at her words, Isabelle clenched her hands into fits, her jagged fingernails digging into her palms. Wordlessly, she trailed her lady to her room and closed the door behind them.

  “I’m sorry,” Lady Theodosia burst out. “I … I don’t know what’s come over me.”

  “You’re nervous. I understand.” Isabelle said no more, not wishing to hear about Lord Adrian Wingrave. Although Adrian Wingrave was a wonderful name. A strong name. For a strong and handsome man …

  How could she dare to think of her lady’s betrothed like that!

  “’Tis no excuse. I never did ask you if you enjoyed yourself last night.” Lady Theodosia stood beside her bed and turned around so Isabelle could start undressing her.

  “I did have fun. Thank you for having me accompany you.” Isabelle focused on the many buttons, wishing she and Lady Theodosia weren’t so close, that her lady would keep her thoughts to herself, that they would not converse, and yet she did wish to talk. She wanted her lady to be happy. Her lady’s happiness meant more than her own.

  “Oh, good. I was afraid once we got separated … ” Lady Theodosia stepped out of her dress and wandered over to her closet in her underclothing. As if at random, she pulled out a green gown and handed it to Isabelle. In no time at all, she was wearing it and standing in front of her mirror.

  The silence was growing heavy, oppressive, and Isabelle felt as if the air in her lungs was being sucked away. “You seem so sad.”

  “Oh, Isabelle, I don’t know what to say to him! It’s not as if I’m a quiet, shy girl. I go out to parties and laugh and joke and have a marvelous time, but with him, my tongue twists into knots and I say all the wrong things. He must think I’m a dreadful bore.” She dramatically, but gracefully, collapsed into her vanity seat, her sorrow clearly visible on her mirrored face.

  “Try to get him to do most of the talking then.” Isabelle focused on redoing her lady’s hair, but her fingers trembled. Two deep breaths composed her. There, now she could work her charm on the blond locks.

  Lady Theodosia gave a most unladylike groan. “I tried that already and failed miserably. He went on about fox hunting. You know I care nothing for the sport! But I should have kept my mouth closed and smiled, like Mother told me to.”

  “You do have a beautiful smile.”

  Her lady smiled at her reflection then turned her gaze to Isabelle’s in the mirror. She patted Isabelle’s hand on her shoulder. “Thank you. You’ve been so kind to me.”

  Lady Theodosia stood and glided out of the room. Isabelle toyed with the unused hair clips before sitting on her lady’s seat. She thought about playing with her nearly elbow-length hair and seeing how it would look done up as she had her lady’s. Instead she returned the clips to their containers on top of the vanity. She had had more than enough time pretending to be someone she wasn’t last night. She wasn’t about to make that mistake again.

  On his way to the dining room, a servant almost walked into Adrian. The same one from earlier, he thought, but couldn’t be certain. Once again, she whispered an apology, and he wondered at Lady Theodosia’s outburst. Perhaps the maid never watched where she was going. Or perhaps his wife-to-be had no patience and abused the help.

  He truly needed to stop thinking so ill of her. It was not her fault that he had fallen for another the previous night. Adrian had been to so many balls before; he hadn’t seen the harm in one more. Never had one lady so captivated him. He knew he would be a devoted husband to Lady Theodosia, as was expected of him, but he would never forget last night, or their one dance.

  Lord and Lady Haywood dominated the conversation, which was punctuated by long periods of silence. Adrian paid his food more attention than normal, and he enjoyed his roll with marmalade, his eggs, and bacon. While Lady Theodosia drank tea, he enjoyed ale. Gradually, as his belly filled with delicious food, he loosened up a bit.

  “Lady Theodosia, what is your favorite Christmas song?”

  “All My Heart This Night Rejoices,” she answered without hesitation. She even graced him with a smile. Her face lit up. She truly was beautiful. If not for the dark silver-masked lady, he could well have been besotted with his wife-to-be.

  At that moment, he decided to do all he could to forget the brunette and focus on the blond.

  Her parents murmured excuses and left the room. Adrian was fairly certain they were not far off, for without their presence, he and his betrothed were alone without a chaperone.

  “A lovely song. Do you, by any chance, sing?” he asked.

  Lady Theodosia’s cheeks changed from pale to pink in an instant. “Oh, no, but I do play. Would you care to listen?”

  He stood and walked around the table to offer his arm. They strolled into the parlor. Tucked in the corner was a piano he hadn’t noticed before. A maid was dusting it off and made herself busy elsewhere as they approached.

  His lady sat and placed her fingers above the ivory keys. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her chest rising, and the notes were conjured out of the instrument with ease. Adrian hummed along, not a wonderful singer himself, and swayed to the melody.

  Halfway through the song, the music stopped. “Isabelle. Come here. Won’t you please sing for us?”

  The maid had been about to leave the room. Her body stilled. “I’m not feeling well,” she said, her voice faint, her back still toward them.

  “Oh, just one song. Your voice is far sweeter than mine.”

  Adrian covered his mouth to hide his smile. It seemed he had mistaken his soon-to-be wife’s attitude regarding her servants.

  The girl kept her head down and approached as if she wanted the rug to open up and swallow her. Must be a shy thing, the poor girl.

  Lady Theodosia appeared not to notice the servant’s discomfort and began playing the song from the top.

  Adrian waited for the maid to sing, but nothing came out of her slightly parted lips as his lady played the first line.

  “Please, Isabelle? For me?” Lady Theodosia asked. “If you truly aren’t feeling well … ”

  “I’ll sing.”

  Again, his lady pressed the keys.

  “All … my heart … this night rejoices … ”

  Her voice was faint, as if her nerves were getting to her, but he could hear a silver tone to her voice, a quality that all great singers possessed. As the song continued, her voice grew louder, more sure, and he drank in the piano music, her sweet voice, and the lyrics, the trio merging together to make heavenly music.

  Toward the middle of the song, the maid finally lifted her head. “You are … freed; all you need I will surely give you.” She coughed slightly and covered her mouth. “Excuse me.” She fled the room.

  Adrian gasped. Surely his eyes had been deceiving him, but he would swear on his younger sister’s grave th
at the maid had been the one to wear the black and silver mask the previous evening.

  Lady Theodosia played on until the last note died out, echoing throughout the room. “I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t realize how ill Isabelle is feeling.”

  He blinked then smiled down at her. “Do not fear; I don’t mind. How did you learn to play so splendidly?”

  His lady talked animatedly, and Adrian sorely strove to listen, to be a good future husband, but he could not stop wondering if Isabelle had played some kind of a cruel trick on him, for it was clearly obvious that Lady Theodosia knew nothing about her maid having spent time with her betrothed at the masquerade.

  Finally, Lady Theodosia ran out of words and played more. He sat in a nearby chair and listened. Sleep came to him, and in his dreams, he danced with first Theodosia, then Isabelle, and back again. Light and dark, dark and light, the two girls then merged into one, and he woke with a start to find himself alone.

  Blast it all. He had better get his head on straight and do what was right. Which meant ignoring Isabelle. And getting to know Theodosia better.

  But how could he ignore his soul?

  Isabelle ran straight to her bed in the servant’s quarters. Only one tear managed to leak out the corner of her right eye. What had she expected to happen? She could only hide her face for so long; the house was only so big.

  And then his face … when recognition dawned … he looked as if he had been punched in the stomach. As if his world had died. As if seeing her again was the last thing he had wanted.

  But what was even worse was that he had been looking at Lady Theodosia when she had been playing as he had looked at her as they danced—with happiness and a smidgen of awe. He was falling for his soon-to-be wife. As he should. She should be happy for them.

  Yet, her stomach twisted into knots. Her chest ached, and she felt as if she couldn’t breathe.

  Stop it, Isabelle. You’re stronger than this.

  She forced her hands to stop their trembling and wiped one over her face. Adrian—Lord Wingrave, son of a viscount—had paid her no attention at all when he had not known who she was. Why should she pay him any attention either? Not that she would expect any lord to notice a maid; she could hardly blame him for that.