by Jo Goodman
Velvet Night (Author’s Cut Edition)
Historical Romance
Jo Goodman
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Copyright © Joanne Dobrzanski 1987; 2019. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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eBook ISBN: 978-1-64457-120-0
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
Before You Go…
Crystal Passion
Also by Jo Goodman
About the Author
Prologue
November 1805
Kenna Dunne edged closer to the banister, keeping her body in the shadows on the landing. Between the smooth oaken posts smelling faintly of beeswax, one eye was opened wide and scanning the flurry of activity in the lighted hallway below. Kenna fought back a giggle as Henderson assisted the most recent guest with her pelisse. The manservant swept back the young woman’s cloak and his superior height gave him an unrestricted view of the ivory bosom swelling above a tightly laced bodice. At the rear of the woman’s unsuspecting shoulder Henderson’s white brows wiggled in appreciation. “Poor Henderson!” Kenna whispered conspiratorially, nudging her stepsister. “I shouldn’t be surprised if the Lord smote his eyes by evening’s end. If Mrs. H. doesn’t smite him first. That’s the fourth shepherdess nearly popping from her bodice.”
“I only counted three,” Yvonne answered softly. She turned her head so Kenna could hear, a worried line between her brows. “I think we should leave the staircase. Someone is bound to see us.” Yvonne started to rise but she was pushed back in her place by Kenna’s firm hand on her shoulder.
“Not yet! I want to see everything. There never has been such a party at Dunnelly before. Did you include Lady Dimmy as a shepherdess?”
“No.”
“Then that accounts for it.”
“But she looked like a housekeeper,” Yvonne protested.
Kenna muffled her laugh with the back of her hand, never taking her eyes from the guests. “Yes, I know she did. But she meant to be a shepherdess so we must count her as one. At least I think that’s what she meant to be. It is rather hard imagining anyone would come to a masque costumed as a housekeeper. Though it’s difficult to say why anyone would come as a shepherdess, for that matter.”
Yvonne’s smile was wistful. “I think it’s romantic.”
“Pooh! There’s nothing romantic about tending sheep. Smelly work if ever there was. But I don’t suppose they gave that a thought.” Kenna’s wide mouth curled in derision as the newest shepherdess was escorted into the ballroom. “What do you think would happen if we were to release a dozen ewes?”
“We would never leave the schoolroom in this lifetime, Kenna Dunne,” Yvonne said firmly. “You may not mind it, for Mama says she will have to take you in hand if you are not to become a bluestocking, but I should wither and die if I have to refine upon the geography of India yet again.”
That dramatic pronouncement brought Kenna’s attention fully on her stepsister. Immersed as Kenna was in her studies, it hadn’t occurred to her that Yvonne found them painfully dull. To Kenna’s young and curious mind the notion was inconceivable. Her head fell thoughtfully to one side and she drew a strand of hair through her lips, worrying it as she often did when struck by a particularly fascinating anomaly.
At thirteen Kenna was not often given to introspection, but she believed she was aware of the admirable qualities she possessed as well as those in which she was found wanting. Without conceit she listed the former attributes in her mind: intelligent, curious, daring, loving, honest, fair, and possessed of an independent spirit. Opposite that list she concluded she was sadly lacking wisdom to compliment her intelligence, common sense to temper curiosity and daring, and tact to sooth the sting of her earnestly honest tongue. She knew she was spoiled by her father and older brother. But one thing she had never thought she lacked was regard for others. Now she added selfish to her list.
Overjoyed as she was to have Yvonne in the family after a lifetime of being raised in the near exclusive company of males, Kenna had assumed she and Yvonne would share confidences and adventures. Now Kenna reflected that she had not really listened to her sister’s secrets and all their adventures had been at Kenna’s urgings. Kenna could find no other explanation for the fact that not above a week ago she and Yvonne had been locked in the tower room for nearly eighteen hours while everyone at Dunnelly Manor had been searching for them in the lake. Looking back, Kenna remembered Yvonne’s softly voiced reluctance to go into the tower room, but with characteristic impetuousness Kenna had dismissed her fears and pressed on. That was why this evening, instead of joining the masked celebration their parents were hosting—the first since their marriage three months ago—Kenna and Yvonne were confined to their bedchambers.
Supposed to be confined, Kenna reminded herself, for her father had been loath to lock them in and had accepted their word of honor they would remain unseen and unheard. Yet here they were, once again at Kenna’s insistence, hidden on the shadowed stairs and acting for all the world like Peeping Toms in their own home. For herself she did not mind terribly much, but with her newfound insight she knew Yvonne was deeply disappointed. Yvonne wanted to be entering the ballroom now, mixing with the pirates and queens, the devils and clowns, and, of course, the four shepherdesses.
Kenna reflected that Yvonne would have made an excellent angel. Her white-blond hair, braided for bed and coiled on her small head, formed a natural halo. Her expression, aided by a pair of clear blue eyes and dark fanning lashes, was most frequently winsome, perhaps even a little other-worldly. She was a Madonna, petite and soft-spoken with beautifully molded features, delicate and serene.
Kenna felt compelled to make another list. She had no illusions about her own looks. In contrast to Yvonne’s ethereal nature, which was best suited to pastel gowns and silver slippers, Kenna was firmly of this earth. Taller than every woman she knew and able to look most men of her acquaintance in the eye, Kenna thought of herself as unflatteringly tree-like. Thin and gangly, still possessing the awkwardness of youth, she viewed her limbs as slashing branches most often slapping out of control, guided willy
-nilly by an uneven temperament. Her mouth seemed too wide for her narrow face; the lower lip was certainly too full to copy the serenity of Yvonne’s smiles. Unconsciously Kenna ran the tip of her index finger along the narrow bridge of her nose. There was nothing to recommend this appendage as retroussé. If she slept face down in her pillow for the next seventy years, with the tip of her nose arranged just so, she doubted it would ever achieve the charming effect that was often remarked about her sister’s countenance.
Kenna spit out the strand of hair she was pensively chewing and examined the wet tip with a measure of disgust. Even damp her hair was still the color of a flame, a blend of orange and red so striking that it was likely to elicit comments as to its combustability. Thick and unruly, it frequently required the attention of a comb, which Kenna was reluctant to use. She was more likely to cut out her tangles with a dull pair of sewing scissors which accounted for her oddly cropped style.
Her brows and lashes were dark, which she supposed served her well enough. Had they been the same color as her hair she would have been blinking fire and how was she to feign engaging expressions when her face was a veritable beacon? And her eyes? In Kenna’s present frame of mind they did not bear scrutiny. At this moment she felt it was a kindness to say they were the same deep shade of brown as mud.
It was not Kenna’s way to refine upon what could not be changed and envy served no purpose that she could understand. She was glad enough that Yvonne was a diamond of the first water because any young woman who abhorred the schoolroom needed something to recommend her.
Coming out of her reverie, Kenna realized she had missed the entrance of several new arrivals. Yvonne’s dreamy sigh warned her they had been of particular interest and Kenna suddenly had an idea. If it was in her power—and Kenna had yet to experience a situation that was not—Yvonne was going to attend the masque.
Kenna tapped Yvonne’s shoulder. “Let’s go back to my room. I have a marvelous idea.” Kenna knew Yvonne had good reason to be wary but she thought her stepsister rather faint-hearted to show it so plainly. Yvonne might have all manner of beauty but she lacked spirit. Kenna thought it a very good thing that she had Yvonne’s full measure now. It was not too late to correct this regrettable character flaw.
Kenna overcame Yvonne’s resistance by taking her by the wrist and pulling her up the stairs. Bent on her mission, which she now likened to saving a damsel in distress and feeling very fine about her intended good works, Kenna raced along the darkly paneled hallway with Yvonne firmly in tow. Oblivious to the fading music in the background and the faint laughter of her father’s guests, Kenna also failed to notice the approaching footsteps from the south wing which marked an end to her secrecy.
It was difficult to say who was more surprised when Kenna took the corner at full tilt, her slippers sliding on the polished floor, and barreled heavily into the unyielding arms of a highwayman. The highwayman rocked back on his heels and there was a distinct and unflattering whoosh as air left his lungs from the force of the collision. Kenna’s heart firmly lodged in the region of her throat and she lost her grip on Yvonne’s wrist as she sought purchase and balance on the rogue’s broad shoulders. She knew herself to be every bit of graceless as her feet trod hard upon the highwayman’s boots and her dressing gown tangled about his legs. They tottered briefly and might have managed to remain standing had Kenna not heard the familiar sound of her brother’s laughter coming from beyond the highwayman’s shoulder. She brought her head up sharply to reprimand Nicholas for finding his amusement at her expense and squarely connected her forehead with her unwitting assailant’s chin. A muffled curse followed and though Kenna vowed she had never heard it before, she somewhat fuzzily thought it appropriate to this occasion. Behind her, Yvonne’s squeal of fright turned to wailed distress and Kenna knew she and the highwayman were going to take a tumble. Seeing nothing for it but to make the best of an awkward encounter, Kenna closed her eyes in the hope that not seeing the floor rise to meet her would make for a softer landing.
A moment later there was the expected thud but none of the bone-jarring pain Kenna anticipated accompanying it. Her eyes were still squeezed tightly shut and her face was comically distorted while she waited for her body to signal monumental injury. It took her several moments to realize she was lying fully on top of the highwayman and he had chivalrously taken the brunt of the fall. Cautiously she opened one eye and stared into the face of her much abused gallant.
It was altogether a rather handsome face that met her wary gaze. The highwayman’s mask had slipped in the fray and rested awkwardly about his neck, but the absurdity of his present posture did nothing to detract from his roguish attraction. His black felt three-corner hat had been dislodged in the fall and a lock of hair, nearly as dark as his disguise, fell neatly across his smooth forehead. The firm thrust of his jaw was softened by the merest suggestion of a dimple and Kenna wondered why her head didn’t feel the better for making contact with it. His eyes were closed and Kenna could detect no movement behind them or from the ebony lashes that fanned them. His mouth was parted slightly and she could make out the even white line of his teeth resting on his lower lip. She was glad she hadn’t disgraced herself by knocking any of them out, though she reflected darkly that a loose cuspid may be just the thing to keep him from skulking around corners in the future. Kenna would have waited patiently for the highwayman to come to his senses if he had shown the least desire to do so, but he seemed so completely at his ease that Kenna was inspired to hurry matters along.
“Oh, Nicky, I think I’ve done murder!” she cried out, feigning alarm at the stillness of the body beneath her. “Never say this blackguard was a dear friend of yours for I’d hate to be the cause of a most untimely but permanent separation!” As Kenna expected, it was not her brother who answered.
The highwayman’s eyes opened like a shot and a menacing growl rose deep in his throat. He grasped Kenna’s thin arms in his gloved hands and moved her to one side as he sat up. “Tis more likely I should murder you, sprite!” He gently rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “Couldn’t you show a shade more concern in the face of such calamity? A modicum of remorse would not be amiss. As I recall, you used to cry when I left Dunnelly and now not so much as a tear for nearly cutting me down in my prime.”
Kenna laughed brightly as she looked into the rueful face of the highwayman massaging his tender chin. His outraged accents were without sting because his clear gray eyes danced as they met Kenna’s. “I am not such a nuncheon that I cry at the least little thing any longer,” Kenna said tartly, removing his hand and giving him an affectionate kiss on the chin. “Is that better? No? Well, it is all you can expect in the way of a welcome. Nicholas did not even whisper that you were coming to the masque. That was very bad of him, but you might have written to me.”
Nicholas Dunne held out a hand for his sister. “It was Rhys’s idea to surprise you,” he said quickly extricating himself from responsibility.
Rhys Canning sent his best friend a pained glance. “Steadfastness is not your strong suit, Nick. Now she’s bound to give me another scold.”
Kenna looked from one to the other, a smile playing about her wide mouth. It was difficult to stay angry at either one of them. Other than her father, these two were the men she loved best in the world.
In appearance Rhys and Nick were cut from the same cloth. Often as not they were mistaken for brothers but in truth were probably closer than if they had been siblings. They were of a similar height and build, both possessed of handsome countenances that had caused more than a few hearts to flutter when they entered a room. This particular phenomenon amused Kenna but she knew it to be true because they told her it was so. She may have doubted their veracity if it hadn’t coincided with a peculiar lurch Kenna felt in her chest when Rhys came to visit on occasion. It didn’t occur to her to wonder why the same tingling didn’t occur when Nick was around. If she had, she might have deduced the difference lay in the eyes—not hers, but t
heirs. While Nick’s eyes were deep blue, sharp and gently teasing by turns, Rhys’s gray eyes seemed infinitely more intriguing, subtly changing shades as his mood altered.
It did not surprise Kenna that Nick’s costume was nearly identical to the one Rhys wore and she doubted they had consulted one another. It was exactly the sort of thing they would do independently and for their pains wind up looking like a coin with two heads.
To Kenna’s knowledge they hadn’t seen each other since leaving Oxford more than a year ago and while Nick divided his time between Dunnelly and London, Rhys had gone to the Continent for some purpose Kenna had never quite divined. Questioning Nick brought little satisfaction because he was unusually closed-mouth on the subject of Rhys’s departure. She wondered why she thought of it now, when it no longer mattered that he had disappeared without a word. It was only important that he was back and Nick was looking happier than he had in months.
She tried her best to look severe as she shook off Nick’s hand. Arms akimbo, she faced her brother. “And it is very like you to lay the blame at Rhys’s door, but it won’t serve.”
Nicholas took a step backward, playfully holding out his arms as if to ward her off. “Don’t fly into the boughs, sprite. And lower your voice. Father is certain to hear you and then you’ll be back in your room—this time with a keeper.”
Kenna was ready to take offense for being called sprite again. It was an absurd name given the fact that she was only a few inches shy of attaining her brother’s or Rhys’s height. She thought better of it when Rhys reminded her of her real predicament.
