"I quite agree. Your own mask, for example, has made you entirely too bold."
"And yet the brave and worldly Earl of Scarcliffe remains as prim and proper as ever!"
Robert bristled. It was unseemly to argue with a lady, he knew, but Cecily did nothing if not invite argument.
"You are trying to provoke me. It won't work."
"No, Lord Robert," Cecily sighed. "I am trying to persuade you to ask me to dance."
Robert's eyes left the window where the mysterious couple were still embracing. His gaze unashamedly traced the lines of Cecily's body, just visible in the half light. The arch of her waist, where his hand would sit if they waltzed. The enticing swell and curve of her.
Impulsively, his hand darted out to lift her chin until she was looking him in the eye. He saw her breathing slow.
It was that moment, his hand at her chin, her eyes fixed on his, that Robert first realised that he had as much, if not more, power to quicken Cecily's heartbeat as she did over his own.
"I don't care who you promised the waltz to," he told her. "It's mine."
Cecily nodded. Robert couldn't help but smile.
He had finally discovered what it took to render Lady Cecily Balfour speechless.
Robert fancied he saw the crowd parting before him as he led Cecily by the hand to the centre of the dance floor. He had never thought much of his own looks, though he supposed his mask lent him a certain flair.
It was Cecily whose figure entranced them all. No-one was as elegant, as graceful, no-one moved with such imperious dignity as she did.
And she was in his arms.
Yes, it was dangerous. But Robert had never realised before how thrilling danger could be. The pounding of his heart was exquisite, and he didn't know whether it was the threat of discovery or the nearness of Cecily.
It would have been polite to make conversation as they danced, but he and Cecily had not begun their acquaintance in a traditional manner, and he saw no need to stand on ceremony now. He simply took the opportunity to memorise every crystal fleck in her sky-blue eyes. Her gaze was magnetic. Neither one of them could bear to look away until the dance was finished.
The crowd applauded for the musicians, but the sound was faint and distant in Robert's ears. He bent to kiss Cecily's silken glove.
"Thank you, my lady," he murmured.
"The pleasure was mine," she answered. Suddenly, her eyes dropped from his, her long lashes covering the blue. He was glad of it. If she had managed to turn his world upside down without suffering the slightest effect herself, he would have been miserable.
No, she had felt it. Just as he had. Their bodies moving in time had made a music far sweeter than the waltz.
Robert led Cecily away to a quiet corner, aware that curious eyes now followed them. "You have had your fun. Get away now, while you have the chance to do so unnoticed."
The attention of the onlookers had not passed Cecily by. She tossed her head proudly. "Why on earth would I want to do that?"
"For my sake," Robert pleaded. "I will not be satisfied until you are safely away from here."
"My dance card is full, my lord." Cecily's lips rose into a mischievous half-smile, and Robert did his best not to enjoy the sight. "I don't mean to depart until dawn."
"You are impossible," Robert breathed.
"Miss Somerville?" A young man in a golden lion's costume approached them nervously. "I believe this dance is mine."
Robert felt an unexpected pang of disappointment as Cecily dropped his hand to take the young lion's. He watched her glide back towards the dance floor with such grace it was as if her feet did not touch the ground.
It was a wonder that no-one else had discovered her identity. No-one moved the way Cecily did. She walked as though she owned every room she entered.
"My lord," came the quiet voice of a footman, interrupting Robert's reverie. "Doctor Hawkins wishes to speak to you about your father. He is in the Marquess's chambers."
"Of course," said Robert, tearing his eyes away from Cecily. He tried not to envy the young lion too much. After all, it wasn't even a question of learning to share.
Cecily would never be his, no matter how much he wanted her.
Chapter Eleven
It seemed that the Earl of Scarcliffe's mask was not quite the disguise he thought it was. Cecily quickly discovered that she was the only woman he had found time to dance with at his own ball. As a consequence, the mysterious Miss Somerville was the subject of a very satisfying degree of attention and intrigue. The ladies all wanted to meet her; the men all wanted to dance with her.
Cecily had always wondered whether her success in society was simply due to her high birth. No-one could deny that being a Duke's daughter came with many advantages. So she was inordinately pleased to find that her wit and flirtation were just as well-received when she was no more than a Miss.
Jemima was faring similarly well, though she had not managed a dance with Robert. Cecily had barely exchanged a word with her "sister" all night, so great were the number of Jemima's dance partners. Jemima had exactly the sort of slender figure and mass of golden hair which attracted a gentleman's attention. Cecily had often been jealous of her, although she knew that Jemima's good looks did not mean her life was an easy one.
At present, the only way to track Jemima about the room was by the bobbing of her peacock feathers above the mask. Judging by the way they shook with merriment, she was having a good time.
Cecily could not have been more pleased with her scheme.
"I simply must sit down a moment," she told her latest partner with a happy sigh. "Would you be so kind as to fetch me a glass of lemonade?"
The young man moved with half-smitten alacrity to find her a chair, and went off in search of refreshments. Cecily wriggled her toes inside her dancing slippers. They were not exactly the leather half-boots she preferred, but she could not deny that they were pretty.
Sometimes it was nice to simply be pretty, vapid, and charming. None of the gentlemen that evening had taxed her mind at all – Robert excepted. It was relaxing. It would drive her completely mad if life was always like this, but, once in a while, it was truly pleasant.
Cecily found herself looking around the dance floor, seeking out Robert's latest partner. How strange. He was nowhere to be seen.
What sort of man did not attend his own ball? Only the flimsy disguise of the masks prevented him from being decried as a poor host.
It was then that Cecily began to wonder how much Robert had really wanted this ball at all. He did not strike her as the sort of man who filled his days with social chatter and giggling Misses. She'd had him down as an early-to-bed, early-to-rise, lover of the outdoors and the wild country lifestyle.
Unless that was only what she wanted him to be…
Cecily had only half drifted away on her thoughts of Robert. She was still listening, though not intently, to the chatter going on around her. She had the sort of mind that was always eager for some amusement and could not be readily turned off.
So it was not through eavesdropping, but rather, her natural habit of seeking out distraction, that led her to overhear the conversation taking place between the gentlemen standing beside her.
"I was disappointed not to see your father, Hart," one gentleman was saying. "I've heard the old fellow could put any man to shame on the dance floor in his day!"
"I'm sorry to say his dancing days are over," answered Lord Jonathan Hartley. "Though it is mysterious the way his gout has suddenly flared up on this evening in particular."
"Mysterious? In what way?"
"Well, I don't like to gossip." The other gentlemen laughed disbelievingly. Hart conceded the point. "Very well, very well. Call me an old fishwife if you must. I'm simply saying that it's curious. The old man arrives at Scarcliffe Hall – takes a drink from a cask of port that came to us from Loxton, which, as you know, is on the Duke of Loxwell's land – and he's taken ill. Draw your own conclusions, gentlemen. I have draw
n mine."
"You cannot be suggesting that the Duke has poisoned your father!"
Cecily could not resist turning to watch Lord Jonathan's reaction. He gave an elegant shrug, and answered with something of a leer:
"Oh, the dastardly old Duke would never do anything fatal."
"Is it your habit to speak of Dukes so disrespectfully?" Cecily demanded, rising to her feet. The group of gentlemen broke apart before her, every man abashed save one.
Hart met her eyes coolly. "Pardon me, Miss. I don't think I've had the honour?"
"My name is Jane Somerville," said Cecily. "And you, I believe, are Lord Jonathan Hartley. Not a King, my lord. Not a Queen, either, as far as I can make out." This remark was greeted by sniggers from the assembled gentlemen. "What gives you the right to speak ill of a Duke?"
"I said nothing unwarranted," said Hart, turning away as though her conversation bored him. Cecily's hand darted out and rapped him on the shoulder.
"I have not finished speaking!"
She was too angry to regret it. Even when painful silence spread out around her and Robert's brother, she did not quite regret it.
Hart looked at the place on his shoulder where she had touched him as though he could not quite believe she had done it. "But I am finished, Miss Somerville."
"I demand that you recant your foul accusation against the Duke of Loxwell!"
"In looking back over what I have said, I find nothing which I wish to reconsider." Hart's voice was dangerously soft and low.
"Then you are no gentleman, my lord. The Duke of Loxwell is an honourable man."
"Is it the done thing to defend a man's enemies under his own roof?" Hart demanded. "May I remind you where you are, young lady. This is my family's house."
"That does not give you the right to spread gossip and rumour –"
"I do what I please in my own home." To Cecily's shock, Hart ripped the mask from his face, revealing the derisive sneer he wore. "I am not afraid to put my face beside my words. Are you?"
Cecily realised that he had her backed into a corner. Everyone in the ballroom had turned to watch their argument. If she revealed her face, they would all know what she had done. She would be thrown out of the ball in disgrace.
"I have said nothing amiss," she said, taking a step back. Hart moved towards her, arms folded, face mocking.
"You have attempted to tell me what I can and cannot say under my own roof. If you were a gentleman, I would call you out on the spot. But you are a lady, and so, at the very least, I demand to face my accuser."
"Now, now, Hart," gasped Northmere, who had run across from the other side of the ballroom. "What's all this? I'm sure the lady meant no harm."
"Sister!" came Jemima's voice, rather too high-pitched for comfort. She had evidently been dancing with Northmere – he had practically dragged her behind him. "I have had quite enough entertainment for one evening. Why don't we thank Lord Jonathan for his hospitality and go home?"
"Oh, there's no need for that," said Hart, smiling like a fox with a cornered rabbit. "If Miss Somerville will only remove her mask, I'm sure we will be able to smooth things over admirably."
The last thing Cecily wanted to do was let Hart win. Her choices were not pleasant: reveal her face, and admit to the fact that she, Lady Cecily Balfour, had snuck into a ball she was not invited to – or go home. Run away, in fact. Leave Lord Jonathan the clear victor.
She was so conflicted that, for once in her life, she had nothing at all to say.
"Let me escort you to the door," said Northmere, positioning himself between Cecily and Hart. He took her hand somewhat roughly and tugged her along with him. "Don't be a fool," he muttered. "Hart will not appreciate you toying with him."
"But the things he said about my father –"
"I don't believe he was talking about your father, Miss Somerville." Northmere bundled Cecily out of the ballroom, Jemima following close behind them. A wave of chatter broke over the crowd the moment they had left, and Cecily was certain that she was the chief topic of conversation.
Northmere looked at Jemima wearily. "And who do I truly have the honour of addressing?"
Jemima lifted her mask, sending the peacock feathers trembling, and pressed a finger to her lips. "Lady Jemima Stanhope," she whispered.
Northmere rolled his eyes. "Well, my ladies, I hope you have entertained yourselves at the Hartleys' expense enough for one evening. I will help you into your carriage – and I will keep watch until I see it turning the corner at the end of the driveway."
"Thank you, Lord Northmere," said Cecily, with feeling. It was not often that she got herself into such a scrape she needed help to escape it.
"I am not doing this for you." Northmere gave a wry smile. "I happen to be something of an expert at extricating myself from tricky situations, and this is one occasion when I can use my talents for someone else's good." They reached the carriage. "Goodnight, ladies." He offered first Cecily, then Jemima, his hand to step inside. True to his word, Cecily saw him watching from the steps at the front of the house as their carriage drove away.
"That Baron Northmere is more than a little charming," said Jemima, diplomatically avoiding the subject of Cecily's brush with disaster. "It's a pity he wasn't the one to tear off his mask. I would have liked a closer look at him."
Cecily twirled a strand of loose hair between her fingers. Contrition did not come naturally to her, but she was doing her best. "Did you manage to enjoy yourself this evening, then? Despite my forcing you into it… and almost upsetting the whole scheme to boot?"
Jemima was about to answer when the carriage juddered to a sudden halt.
Cecily bit her lip. The last thing she wanted was to stay another moment on Hartley land.
"Driver!" she called. "What on earth is going on?"
"There's a horseman blocking the road ahead," came the reply. "Not to worry, my lady. We'll move him on in a jiffy."
"Oh, for goodness' sake." Cecily stuck her head out of the window, expecting to be confronted by a ball-goer who had partaken of a little too much champagne. "Excuse me!" she called out. "Get out of the way at once!"
The last person she expected to ride up to the window was the man whose brother she'd just insulted in front of nearly all their acquaintance.
But there Robert was.
Chapter Twelve
Robert had done Doctor Hawkins and the young lady who assisted him, Miss Anna Hawkins, the courtesy of walking them to the door. Truth be told, it was not that he felt the need to be excessively polite. He had never had much inclination towards the masked ball, and, after his dance with Cecily, his urge to join the merriment had diminished still further.
He was honest enough with himself to admit that there was no other woman at the ball who caught his attention the way Cecily did. Anyone else would be a pale comparison. The idea of pretending to enjoy the party while Cecily sparkled and shone on other men's arms at the centre of the dance floor was detestable.
Once Doctor Hawkins and his daughter were seen safely off, Robert found himself seeking out another reason to avoid returning to his own ball. Ah! Of course. He had not yet gone to check on Thunder.
He made his way to the stables in time to see a carriage moving towards the front door. In the dark, it was nearly impossible to make out the driver's livery, so perhaps it was only because Cecily was on his mind that Robert recognised the Balfour colours at once.
She was leaving. She had promised to dance until dawn, but she was leaving!
His mind filled with all the things he ought to have said to her as they danced together. The thought of leaving those words unspoken was unbearable. Robert saddled Thunder in great haste and rode along the wooded path that followed the line of Scarcliffe Hall's long driveway. He cut across just in the nick of time, coming to a halt in front of Cecily's carriage just as it reached the gates.
Cecily's head appeared, sticking out of the window. "Driver! What on earth is going on?"
Robert
brought his horse around to her side of the carriage immediately.
"You're leaving," he said. Cecily's mask was in her lap. He could make out every contour of her pretty face in the moonlight. She looked shocked.
"You asked me to, didn't you?"
"But you said you would stay. Why leave now?"
She tossed her head proudly. He was beginning to see that she brought out pride for a number of purposes, none of them to do with vanity. In this instance, she was hurt. "Ask your brother. He's a charming man."
"Did Hart discover your identity?"
"Pardon me, my lord." A blonde-headed girl pulled Cecily away from the window. "I don't think it's wise to have any more conversation between the Hartleys and the Balfours this evening."
Robert gritted his teeth. "Hart did something rash, didn't he?"
"He insulted my father," said Cecily, above Jemima's protests. "I had no choice but to speak up."
"Hart is not a bad sort, Lady Cecily. He simply… He doesn't take anything quite seriously." How could Robert explain his brother's difficult personality? "He was not always like this. He suffered a great disappointment, long ago, and he has kept himself too well-guarded since. He feels he has to defend himself. Mirth and mockery are his chief weapons."
"I don't see what Lord Jonathan's disappointments have to do with his rudeness about my father."
"Let me apologise on his behalf." Robert dismounted from Thunder and put his hand on the carriage door. "Step aside with me a moment. I'm sure that a few moments are all that is needed to put things to rights between us."
"Ceci!" warned her companion. "You must under no circumstances leave this carriage. He is a Hartley. What would your father think?"
Cecily hesitated – only for a moment. "Papa wouldn't approve of anything I've done this evening," she said, with a careless shrug. "So, Jemima, you must help me make sure he doesn't find out about any of it."
She stepped out of the carriage and tucked her arm through Robert's. "If you truly wish to address the feud between our families, let me be the first Balfour to agree to a proper debate. But I warn you, you will find it difficult to explain away the charges I will lay against your family."
The Earl's Secret Passion (Scandals of Scarcliffe Hall Book 1) Page 6
