After Aubrey had her measurements taken, and the plum silk was pulled from the display window, Madam Devereaux whisked them out of the shop. “I will have these gowns delivered to your home before the masquerade. And don’t worry about a thing Lady Aubrey, it will be perfect.” The modiste gave one last wink before turning back into her shop.
The month before the masquerade flew by. The parties were the same, the people were the same. The only thing different was that she was sitting along the wall by herself. Sera had still not arrived home from the continent, and her younger sister had taken society by storm. With her popularity, it was rare that Charlotte ever got a moment to sit along the fringe of the room.
The masquerade this evening would no doubt be another triumph for her.
“Right on time, my lady.” Bitsy laid the wrapped gown on her bed. “Oh, and this note was delivered with it,” she said, pulling a folded piece of paper out of her pocket.
“Thank you, Bitsy.”
“My pleasure, my lady. I will return soon to help you dress.” With a nod, Bitsy curtsied and left.
The dress had been placed on her bed, folded in a shimmery paper that obscured the fabric from view.
Seconds ticked by as Aubrey stared at the bundled package. Her nerves seemed to stretch, fray, and end on a sizzle that she felt all the way to her toes.
Why did she hesitate to open it? The dress had rarely entered her mind over the last month, but she couldn’t seem to stop her reaction to it now. Madam Devereaux had said she would add magic to the gown, enough that men would be eating out of the palm of her hand. Of course that was nonsense, but there was something in the air, something that seemed alive and ready to pounce.
That was what had her pausing, had her contemplating the folded material.
Would it be a light silk, or a dark? Would it have ruffles and lace, perhaps even a few small gems sewn into it?
The possibilities were endless.
Reaching out, the fabric felt cold yet still soft and pliant. The silver threads in the protective layer of fabric shimmered in the soft candlelight.
With a deep breath, Aubrey untied the ribbon, hearing the satiny edges of the material whistle as they loosened.
The silver sparkle fell away, almost in deference to the gold that shone through beneath. The silk was beautiful and unlike any she had ever seen.
In reverence, Aubrey reached out to run her fingers over the shimmering fabric. Unlike the silver, the dress was warm, snapping to life at contact. Jerking her hand away, Aubrey laughed slightly. The shock the material had delivered to her finger was just a coincidence.
A quiet knock sounded at her door before Bitsy walked in again. “Are you ready to dress?”
Aubrey nodded, unsure if she could speak. What had come over her? It was just a dress. Just a silly dress she would wear to a masquerade. There wasn’t magic in it, there wasn’t anything special about it. Except that the material was exquisite. The gold silk had a swirling pattern in a darker gold, almost as if a fairy had cast the design with her wand.
Clucking her tongue, Aubrey scolded herself. It wouldn’t do her any good to think that the gown was anything more than a costume.
“This is beautiful, Lady Aubrey. I’ve never seen a gown to compare!” Bitsy said in awe as she lifted the gown over Aubrey’s head.
“I agree. The material is unique. I haven’t seen anything more beautiful.”
After the last lace had been tied, Bitsy stepped back to view her work. “It looks like it could be made with magic.”
“What?” Aubrey asked, slightly alarmed. Had she unknowingly said something in front of Bitsy?
“It looks like it could have been made with magic. I wager that gentlemen won’t be able to take their eyes off you tonight. Have a look,” Bitsy said, gesturing toward the mirror.
Looking at her reflection, Aubrey could believe the dress held magic. While she doubted it before, she was more open to the idea now. She barely recognized herself. The material gleamed in different hues of gold, all swirling into a floral pattern. The skirt was layered in petals of fabric, creating an almost fairy-like appearance. She looked lush, full, the dress emphasizing her feminine attributes instead of concealing them.
She looked like a pagan goddess. Her hair was more golden; her eyes glimmered like the rarest of emeralds. Every part of herself was enhanced, perfected.
At any other ball she would feel self-conscious, like she was showing too much of herself. But tonight was different. Tonight she wasn’t Lady Aubrey. Tonight she was a stranger. She could be anyone, be anything.
The thought excited her. For a few years she had stayed in the corner, not wanting to draw too much attention to herself. Tonight would be different.
“Aubrey, you look fantastic!” Charlotte said, entering the room with excitement. “Madame Devereaux certainly outdid herself with that creation.” A sly grin curved her lips. “I have no doubt her prediction will come to pass this evening. The men stand no chance.”
A small laugh escaped Aubrey’s lips before she sobered a bit. “Thank you,” she said breathlessly. Something was in the air tonight. She could feel it. She just didn’t know what it was.
“Mother asked me to fetch you. She is waiting in the carriage.”
Aubrey nodded, reaching toward the table for her jeweled mask, its gold ribbons trailing behind it.
Following Charlotte, Aubrey climbed into the carriage. The night was bright, clearly lit by a full moon. She wasn’t superstitious, but she could believe that magic would happen on a night like this.
Her mother and sister chatted quietly, but Aubrey didn’t hear them. It was as if a spell had been cast over her. The closer they came to their destination, the more firmly the enchantment was placed.
“Secure your masks, my dears,” her mother said as they rolled to a stop in front of Lady Templeton’s home. “We have arrived.”
Placing the mask over her face, she felt something within herself break free. This night would be different than any other, and she intended to enjoy every moment of it.
Securing the mask, she felt the thick, silky ribbons kiss her neck, sending a shiver through her body.
Walking into the large home in Mayfair, Aubrey noticed that most of the guests had arrived, lingering in either the ballroom or hall. Dancing had begun, although she couldn’t see the dancers yet, the music floated to her in the hallway.
While newly arrived guests were not being announced, they were still expected to pause at the top of the stairs so others would notice their arrival. Waiting their turn, Aubrey noticed that hardly anyone was paying attention to who arrived.
At least they weren’t until she was standing atop the stairs.
Conversations seemed to stop as she walked down into the ballroom, all eyes focused on her. If it weren’t for the confidence she felt coursing through her, the knowledge that no one knew who she was, she would be worried that something was wrong, that perhaps she had forgotten an important article of clothing.
But nothing was out of place.
In fact, she felt strong, powerful. More so than she had ever felt in her life. Every man seemed to stop what he was doing to absorb her, to take her fully in as she slowly made her way to the floor.
The attention made her cheeks sting with delight, but she didn’t hesitate. She knew that it was just the beginning.
***
The boredom that Bradford, Lord Bromley, the Duke of Wathersby felt as he stood in the overly crowded ballroom was almost more than he could bear. Young debutants skittered by him speaking loudly, emboldened enough by their disguises to try to catch his attention. He wasn’t a fool. Everyone seemed to think that they wouldn’t be recognized, but he never understood that notion. A person with a mask on was the same person without it. Nothing changed.
Would it always be this way? The monotony of society eating at him at every social function? The smell of too many bodies, their sweet perfume and pungent cologne clogging the air? It all seemed so
unbearable now. There was nothing left of the excitement he had felt as a young buck, ready to branch out into society. There was only ennui, exasperation.
Perhaps, if he had married Lady Sera…
He shook the thought right out of his head. It wouldn’t do to dwell upon the failed relationship with the new Countess of Surrant. The false scandal that had ruined her reputation, causing Quinton Devericks, the Earl of Surrant, to propose, was nothing he wanted to think about.
It was time to move on. Fortunately, he had never been in love with Lady Sera. Her beauty and wit had held his attention, and the friendship they had formed had moved him to propose. But there was never any love between them.
Now he needed to find a new duchess. Preferably one that didn’t drive him mad, he thought as another young debutant giggled by him.
If there was one thing that his father had drilled into him since a young age, it was the need to marry and beget heirs quickly. He had put it off as long as possible, but his father’s last request, that his only son marry while still young, weighed on him heavily.
While the prospect didn’t bring him any happiness, it was his duty. And Bradford believed strongly in fulfilling his duty.
He was a duke, and the power that came with his station demanded great responsibility. He could no sooner turn from those who depended on him than cut off his own arm. It was his duty to his family, servants, and the title that demanded that he marry and secure the land and their livelihood for future generations, but it wasn’t something he relished the thought of.
He wanted his marriage ceremony over with, wanted an heir even more so that he had no need to worry about it any longer. He wanted peace and quiet. He wanted the endless balls and meaningless conversations to stop. The quiet solitude of his country manor called to him in a way he was sure other aristocrats in London wouldn’t understand. But he was a long way from his serene estate.
Sighing heavily, he looked up at the painted ceiling. Roman décor was all the rage now, and clearly Lady Templeton had taken to the style with open arms. The large columns and busts of men from those ancient times lined the room in small alcoves. Soft wisps of fabric, gently blowing in the light breeze from the windows, had been hung from the ceiling, carefully shielding stone benches along the wall.
It might have all seemed so strange if half of the guests weren’t dressed in the roman fashion, the women in white togas, fabric gracefully draped over one shoulder. It was all the other costumes that felt strange in the room. The worst he had seen, by far, was the man dressed as a chicken. His feathers looked as if they had been rolled around in a chicken coop one time too many, and the smell didn’t help either.
A few gentlemen, including himself, had chosen to wear formal attire from a century earlier. The ruffles on his shirt, both his chest and arms, were somewhat annoying, but his valet had insisted upon it. He was grateful now, however. His valet could have chosen the chicken costume. He shuddered at the thought.
The room quieted around him. Had the disgust he felt been so apparent? Looking around, however, he realized he wasn’t the person who drew everyone’s eyes.
Glancing up at the top of the staircase, he briefly scanned the three ladies entering, quickly dismissing them before jerking his gaze back to the last woman. With his eyes fastening to the luscious curves beneath the gold swirl cutouts, the breath whooshed out of his chest as he took her in.
No wonder the room had quieted. He wasn’t sure he had ever seen anyone more beautiful than the masked woman who had just entered.
Her curves were plentiful in all the right areas. Her dress molded to those deep curves, accentuating her small waist. Her lips were a lush rose, and he felt his body tighten at the thought of them on his own. Like a crown, her golden hair was artfully secured, only a light curl teased her neck. He couldn’t see her eyes from this distance, but he imagined that they were green, a green so lush and vibrant that the Emerald Isle itself would be put to shame.
She entered the room like a queen, uncaring that she caused such a disruption. Was she used to such a thing? Seeing a slight hesitation in her decent, his attraction flared even higher. She wasn’t so aloof that she didn’t notice the chaos she created.
With only a stair left, the room lurched forward, men climbing over one another to get to her side first. None of them mattered though.
He would have her for himself.
With a few strides, he placed himself in her line of sight. Almost as a magnet, her eyes locked onto his.
The electricity that passed between them had a life of its own. It drowned out everyone and everything. All that was left were the two of them in a bond that wouldn’t break.
He jerked as energy passed through him, felt it to the depth of his soul. Had he ever felt such a connection with someone before? Never, his mind seemed to scream.
Again, the room quieted, almost as if they had been singed by the energy flowing between the two of them. Glancing between the mysterious lady and the duke, the other guests backed away, acknowledging the duke’s rank and his obvious interest in the woman.
She watched him, waiting patiently for his next move. And he was never one to disappoint.
Slowly approaching her, his eyes never left hers. After an exaggerated bow, he offered her his hand in silent request.
He didn’t doubt that she would take it. Her eyes were drowning in his, just as lost as he was. There was no fighting what was happening between them, no way to stop where they were heading.
And he didn’t want to.
He thought he was prepared to dance with her, to take her, to claim her. But when her slender, white hand joined his, he realized he had sadly overestimated his control.
His body clenched at the contact, every nerve fraying in overload. It took every ounce of his control to keep from reaching out to her, pulling her flush against him and kissing her full mouth.
He had never felt this fierce of a desire, hadn’t known that it existed.
He had been with other women before, but none compared to her. And he knew that none ever would.
Silently, he led her to the floor, the rest of the room quiet as they watched the woman who could have come from another time, perhaps another world even.
With the first notes of a waltz, the rest of the floor filled with dancers, eager to hear any snippet of conversation that might pass between the beautiful woman and the duke.
In silent question, Bradford lifted his hand, again asking her permission to touch her waist.
With a slow smile that started with just a small upturn of her lips, she gave her consent. The small change to her face hit him full force, pulling him farther under.
Who was she? Was it possible they had met before?
No. He immediately discarded the thought. If he had met her before, there was no way he would have not pursued her. She was sublime, the paradigm of women.
Maybe she was visiting a relative in town, or perhaps this was her first season. However, after a few seconds of dancing with her, seeing how she adjusted to his frame, he could tell this wasn’t her first. She had danced with more men than just a dance instructor.
She also didn’t seem dazzled by the ball around her, at the opulence of it all. In fact, she seemed the opposite. The guests were what interested her. Glancing around at the people watching her, she seemed to take delight in the fact that they were giving her their attention, almost as if she weren’t used to being in the spotlight.
He wanted to laugh at the thought. She must attract attention wherever she went.
Abruptly, he realized he hadn’t spoken a word to her. Clearing his throat, he spoke in a rich, deep tone. “I fear I have just realized that I have neglected to introduce myself.”
His voice broke through Aubrey’s dreamy haze like a splash of cold water. She knew that voice, had heard it many times in the past year. The Duke of Wathersby.
But no, it couldn’t be, she thought, stiffening in his arms. She watched as his brows puzzled and almost cur
sed her lack of control.
“Have I said something to offend you?” he asked, his voice low with concern.
With a deep breath, she tried to stabilize the flutters in her stomach. How could she not have instantly known who he was? “On the contrary,” she said, her voice sounding a bit hoarse. “I was surprised is all. I had not recognized you in your costume, Your Grace.”
His features quickly arranged in shock. Did he really not know who she was?
Searching his face, she could see that he didn’t. Did she truly look so different? They had danced many dances together just like this, had conversed formally on so many occasions that she had lost count. Yet he didn’t recognize her.
He cleared his throat. “We have already met?”
She nodded once before looking down. She had thought him a stranger, someone who perhaps lived in the country and hadn’t met or heard of her. There had been a connection between them when they had first locked eyes. There was still one now. She could feel it wrapped around her like a tight band, slowly cinching until she couldn’t breathe. Why these feelings? Why now?
She looked up at him with a touch of hopelessness. Once he realized who she was, he wouldn’t want to have anything to do with her.
“Many times?” he asked, seeming to hedge away from her answer.
“Yes, my lord. Many, many times,” she said quietly.
He shook his head in denial as he pulled her closer. “I don’t believe it! Had we met before this night…” he trailed off, seeming to struggle with something.
Did he feel the pull between them as she did? Did he feel it closing in on him, harnessing them together? She looked up into his eyes, searching for her answers.
How could she not have felt this before? It felt so normal, so right.
She was a fool.
She shook her head and looked away, despair filling her. There was no future between the two of them.
Clearly reading her thoughts, he squeezed her hand, willing her eyes to connect with his. “Who are you?”
She inhaled quickly, stumbling over a step. He caught her, using the momentum to twirl her around the floor.
Scandal of Love Page 12
