A Noble Masquerade (17 page)

Jeffreys had barely shut the door behind them before another servant entered with a pitcher of hot water. Ryland cleaned up and slipped into one of the new silk dressing gowns he'd ordered.

For three months Jeffreys had been slipping clothes and other personal items into the house so that it would be ready for his arrival. There were times when experience at subterfuge came in handy.

The silk felt good. The bed felt even better. The scent wafting from the quickly delivered breakfast tray was almost heavenly. Maybe it wouldn't take as long as he'd feared to adjust back to the life of a duke.

“How do I look?”

Miranda rolled her eyes behind the protection of her blue jeweled and feathered demi mask. It covered her forehead completely and slid just over the bridge of her nose. It was the fifth time Georgina had asked that question since they had climbed into the carriage twenty minutes prior. While Mother rushed to assure her youngest daughter that she looked exquisite in her angel garb, Miranda took the time to adjust a feather that was determined to tickle her nose.

The nice thing about masquerades, particularly masquerades during a girl's fourth Season, was that pastels were not required. The bright blue of Miranda's gown did wonders for her complexion, which she then, of course, had to cover up with a mask. Life wasn't fair sometimes.

“What are you again?” Georgina ran a hand over the gauzy skirts of Miranda's gown.

“The sky.”

Mother turned her attention to Miranda. “I thought you said you were a bird.”

Lord Blackstone laughed from his corner of the carriage. “Told me she was the ocean.”

Miranda grinned. “I guess I shall be a woman of mystery, then. Mother, the door is open.”

Mother spun her head around to see the footman was indeed waiting for her to exit the conveyance.

Miranda looked up at the house as she followed her mother.
The entrance was lit like day, while the rest of the front remained shrouded in darkness. The effect was very dramatic. With a final adjustment to her mask, she trailed her family up the steps and into the home, passing four footmen holding aloft enormous candelabras.

Lady Yensworth greeted them enthusiastically. “I'm so glad you returned to town in time for my little gathering.”

Miranda managed to restrain an incredulous laugh. From the looks of things,
everyone
had returned to town for the little gathering. It was sure to be a crush inside. She greeted her hostess with a bow and entered the room, eager to see what kind of decorations lined the interior.

The starkness of the exterior was not mirrored on the interior. Swaths of sheer fabric flowed from the high ceilings, giving the rooms an exotic softness. The second-floor ballroom was exquisite. More candelabras lined the room, these being held by tall stands instead of footmen. Strings of crystal beads hung from them, catching the candlelight and sprinkling spots of sparkle across the room. Lady Yensworth was certainly setting a high standard for the rest of the Season's balls to live up to.

Georgina's pure white gown stood out among the colored dresses most of the women had chosen for the occasion. It wouldn't be long before men were fetching her punch or asking her for a dance. Miranda whipped out her fan and sent her irritating feathers fluttering.

She spied Amelia's pink costume across the room, her arm linked with that of her tall husband, who had donned only a domino mask in addition to his normal evening attire. Anthony might be reformed and completely converted, but certain habits from his jaded, rakish past remained. The couple was in close discussion with two other couples. Rather the women were talking intently while the men gave each other bored half smiles.

Miranda snapped her fan shut and worked her way across
the room, the first genuine smile of the evening on her face. Whatever the women were discussing had to be more interesting than watching her sister. There was nothing she could do for Georgina now anyway. It was in God's hands. He would either answer her prayers to protect her younger sister from heartbreak, or He wouldn't.

“Good evening, Amelia. Lady Granton. Mrs. Reeding.” She nodded to each of the women who'd chosen masks so minuscule they hardly deserved the name before curtsying to the men.

The men bowed in return.

“If you would excuse us,” Anthony said, patting his wife's hand. “There is a card game in the east drawing room.”

“Sure to be vastly more entertaining than this commotion. A bunch of fuss over nothing, if you ask me. Probably portly and disfigured.” Lord Granton ran a hand over his own ample midsection. “That's why he chose a masquerade.”

The men bowed to the ladies once more. Lord Granton and Mr. Reeding departed at once. Anthony leaned in to peck his wife on the cheek first.

“I'll come dance with you later.”

Amelia grinned. “A scandalous number of times, no doubt.”

“But of course.” Anthony nodded to the other ladies and left the party.

It was unusual for any husband to accompany his wife on the dance floor, but Miranda had a feeling that the newlyweds would not care about social convention.

Miranda waited expectantly for the ladies to fill her in on the topic of Lord Granton's grumblings. Trepidation began to climb up her spine as Amelia glanced at her sideways and then refused to meet her eyes.

“Have you heard? It's the most exciting thing. Sure to be the talk of the entire Season!” Mrs. Reeding fluttered her fan to cool her flushed cheeks.

Icy fingers of fear covered Miranda's shoulders. She didn't know what she was afraid of, only that it felt like this news was going to have a great impact on her future.

Lady Granton leaned in and glanced around. “I heard him over by the punch bowl. He introduced himself to Lord Trent.”

“Trent is here?” Miranda looked around for her other brother.

Amelia snagged Miranda's arm, pulling her attention back to the circle. “It could be someone pretending to be him. It's been known to happen.”

Lady Granton shook her head, making her mask slide from side to side across her nose. “I saw the ring. That signet ring is certainly authentic. No one would dare to copy it. Not even his cousin.”

Miranda was losing interest in the whole intrigue. Obviously her sense of doom was wrapped up in the drama of the story. “Who?”

Mrs. Reeding leaned in. “The Duke of Marshington is here.”

Miranda had never imagined a person could actually feel themselves turn pale. Her skin felt thin and icy even while her pulse pounded through her ears. The rhythmic roar drowned out the next few words of her companions, and she was grateful for the protection the mask offered. Her face was surely the picture of shock and fear.

Distantly, she heard Amelia making an excuse about needing fresh air. In moments the welcome breeze on the terrace drew Miranda from her stupor.

“Did he not tell you that he would be in London this Season?” Amelia gripped Miranda's elbows. Compassion was evident in her deep brown eyes despite the shadows created by the purple silk mask.

Miranda shook her head. “I haven't heard from him since my birthday. The last letter from him was rather cryptic, and there's been nothing since.”

“Do you want to leave? Shall I fetch Trent or Griffith?”

“No. No, I shall feel quite the thing in a moment. It was merely surprise that caused such a severe reaction.” Several moments and a few deep breaths later, Miranda felt that she could
enter the ballroom once more. As appealing as the terrace was, she couldn't stay out much longer and protect her reputation.

Amelia left her to find some punch, and Miranda skirted the edge of the dance floor, seeking clues to identify the men. Each time she couldn't name the man with certainty, she wondered if she was looking at the duke.

A flash of white caught her eye, and her attention was drawn to her sister. Georgina's feet flew through the steps of the lively cotillion. In addition to matchless beauty and incredible charm, the blessed girl had been born with natural grace. Her dancing instructors had declared her their easiest pupil ever.

Miranda followed her sister's shadowed gaze and charming smile over to the young girl's partner. He was unlike any other man in the room. Most of the male occupants were dressed as kings or Roman conquerors if they had bothered to dress with any imagination at all. Many wandered the room in their normal attire, only a mask to mark the occasion as Anthony had done.

Georgina's dance partner, however, had gone an entirely different direction in his choice of clothing. He looked more like a century-old French courtier than anything else. The jacket stretched across his broad shoulders was made from a burnt-orange brocade with white ruffles spilling from the sleeves. Brown breeches topped white stockings and heeled shoes. That he was even managing the dance in the ridiculous footwear was intriguing.

The man was large. Perhaps as tall as her brother Griffith—though she couldn't tell for sure considering distance and the elevated shoes. He wasn't as broad in the shoulder though. His brown hair was cropped very short and his mask covered his face from mid-forehead to the top of his jaw. It was even molded over his nose.

She inched forward, trying to see more of him, and got her shoulder grazed by another couple dancing by. Embarrassment
flooded her cheeks, and she was once again grateful for the protection the mask provided. Could the man with her sister be the mysterious duke? Through his letters she knew he was unlikely to conform to society simply because he'd decided to reenter it, but would he be willing to stand out that much?

There was something familiar about the man, though Miranda couldn't think of anyone who wore his hair so closely cropped. Was it the way he moved? The tilt of his head as he led Georgina off the dance floor? Whatever it was, Miranda felt drawn to him. Stepping out with that many layers of lace marching down his chest required a considerable amount of confidence. Confidence that Miranda found herself admiring and envying at the same time.

Perhaps she wasn't trusting the Lord as much as she'd thought. Her first outing back in town and she was adding another name to the list of men she couldn't stop thinking about. First Ryland Marlow the valet, and then the Duke of Marshington, and now the mysterious Lord Brocade. Her desire for a family was drawing her to any man that seemed to be out of the normal mold.

She rose to her toes and craned her neck to follow the couple's progress, but she soon lost them in the crowd. Georgina resurfaced on the dance floor a few minutes later, but with a different partner. A quick glance revealed that Lord Brocade was not among the couples now squaring off for a quadrille.

“Lemonade. Suddenly I'm feeling quite parched.” Miranda's voice was a bit louder than she intended, but none of the surrounding bucks jumped to retrieve her a glass. A woman with a tall powdered wig and wide skirt informed her that the refreshment table was at the other end of the ballroom.

With a sigh, Miranda began working her way through the crowd. She knew the lemonade was on the other side of the room. It was why she decided to get some. She could peruse the crowd while she traveled. The fact that she hadn't wanted
anyone to get the lemonade for her did not take the sting out of the fact that three unattached gentlemen had been nearby and none of them had offered.

No orange brocade along this side of the dance floor. She sipped at her lemonade as she worked her way toward the other side.

“You have quite a reputation.”

Miranda spun around at the deep voice. Lord Brocade had found her. “I beg your pardon!”

“Amongst the gentlemen fawning over your sister instead of you. You have quite a reputation. I thought you might like to know.” A small smile tilted one side of his mouth up.

There was something familiar about the smile. Did she know him? His eyes were hidden by the mask, shadowed too much for her to make out their color. Who was he?

“That is terribly ungentlemanly of you to point out my, er, lack of popularity.”

He shrugged. “You said it, not I.”

Miranda's mouth dropped open. This man had crashed the party! There was no other explanation for it. No one of her acquaintance would be this rude, even with the protection of semi-anonymity. She opened her mouth to give him the cut direct, but he spoke again before she could formulate an actual sentence.

“Then again, you also said you were only passably pretty, and unless that mask is hiding a disfigurement, I believe you might have a misconception there as well.”

She might not be able to see his eyes, but she could certainly feel them. They bored into her. He didn't look to the side or down at his feet. His gaze remained unnervingly constant on her face.

“Who are you?” she finally whispered.

“My apologies. I thought my statements made that obvi
ous.” He reached forward and grasped her hand from where it hung limply at her side. A large gold ring caught the glint of candlelight as he raised her hand to his lips. “I am the Duke of Marshington, Marsh to some of my friends.”

Miranda's first thought was that if her blood kept rushing around her body like this, she was going to have to see a surgeon. Surely it couldn't be healthy. Her second thought was relief that it was only two men filling her attention instead of the three she imagined a few moments earlier. Finally full realization that she was standing in front of the Duke of Marshington set in, and she considered the merits of fainting for the first time in her life.

“Would you do me the honor of dancing the next with me?”

“Oh! I . . . of course.”

The slight smile graced his face once more. “I shall look forward to it.”

He kissed her hand once more before melting back into the crowd, leaving her wondering if the encounter had actually occurred.

Ryland slid behind one of the sheer drapings in a darkened corner, keeping his gaze trained on Miranda. When he'd revealed his identity as the Duke of Marshington, her beautiful green eyes had widened under her mask until they were all that was visible through the cutaways. Every move he had made thus far was carefully calculated. That would all end once he stepped onto the dance floor with her. He would have to improvise based on her reactions.

He counted to ten before she moved, jerking her head back and forth, seeking him in the crowd. These few minutes before the next dance were important. They would give her time to
adjust and come to terms with being face-to-face with the man she had been writing to for years.

As the quadrille ended, Miranda remained still. People flowed on either side of her. One or two people even stopped to talk to her. If she answered, Ryland couldn't see it. It was clear that she was trying to wrap her mind around the idea that he was actually in the same room as she was.

He pulled at the ruffles near his wrist. One of the problems with having a valet who was more friend than servant was that sometimes they took the opportunity to play elaborate practical jokes. Jeffreys had presented the brocade monstrosity with a grin stretched across his pointy face.

He could try Griffith's tactic of spilling food all over himself to create more work, but Jeffreys would probably do the same thing Ryland had done—throw the shirt away and tell his employer that he was rich enough to buy a new one.

Stained or not, the rag bin was certainly where this ensemble was going. He had never been so hot, itchy, and uncomfortable in his life, and he had been in many uncomfortable situations.

The first strains of a familiar tune reached his ears. He had arranged for a waltz to be played next. It would allow him the maximum amount of time with her as a somewhat captive audience. The time would be necessary to move her past the awkwardness of the letters before revealing the deeper deception of his also being Marlow. Ryland left his hiding place and made his way to Miranda's side.

“My lady?”

She looked at him, hesitating for several heartbeats before placing her hand in his. “It's a waltz.”

“So it is.” He watched her, knew the exact moment when she decided to throw caution to the wind and get to know him better.

She felt perfect in his arms. He led her around the floor twice
before he remembered that he had things he wanted to say to her. There had been moments of physical closeness during their journey through the English countryside, but this was different. Here, in this moment, she was completely focused on him. Her hand in his was not because she needed steady footing but because she wanted to be with him. The knowledge meant more to him than he thought it would.

Dragging his focus from the way her skirt swept around his legs was difficult, but he needed to move the conversation along to accomplish his plan.

Miranda had other intentions. “Why didn't you find me earlier?”

The question was innocent and reasonable. Given what he knew from her letters—and from weeks spent under the same roof—he realized what she was really asking was why he had danced with Georgina first.

“I wanted to get to know you first.”

Her pink lips turned down into a frown. He wished he could slide her mask up her face. She looked adorable when she was confused.

“But you weren't talking to me.”

“No, but I was learning quite a bit about you. As I mentioned, you have quite a reputation. Not to worry, it's not a bad one.”

“Oh.”

They swirled around the corner of the dance floor, and Ryland pulled her the slightest bit closer. Her hair smelled like lemons. The deep conversation he'd envisioned would have to wait. His mere existence was giving her enough to deal with in one evening.

“Would you like to know what that reputation is?” Ryland asked.

“I . . . I suppose it would be best to know what others think of me.”

He tilted his head to whisper in her ear. “You are exquisite.”

Shivers passed through her shoulders and arms and into his own appendages. He continued whispering, using other couples to shield them from the most curious of onlookers. “It's true. They say you are exquisite, and I must agree with them.”

“Your Grace, it is really quite unfair of you to deceive me this way.”

“Oh, but I'm not. They also say you are determined to remain unwed. I know this to be untrue, but it is certainly in my best interests to let them think it is.”

Ryland attuned all his senses into reading her reaction to that sentence. He had all but declared himself to be courting her. How would she react?

She missed a step.

He tightened his arms to keep her from tripping. For a brief moment she was trapped to his side. As pleasurable as the experience was, the couples waltzing around them could only hide so much. In the next step he maneuvered her a more proper distance away.

During his years in France he had slipped in and out of many balls and parties, coaxing secrets from and relaying messages to various attendees. It had kept his dancing skills sharp, particularly when it came to waltzing. While the
ton
was still unsure about it, the French had embraced it.

“May I call upon you tomorrow?”

Her gaze was glued to his. What did she see? Could she recognize him? He had forgotten to continue disguising his voice. It wasn't like him to forget anything about a disguise.

“I would like that.” Her smile was shy, but it was beautiful.