His Scandalous Kiss: Secrets at Thorncliff Manor: 6 (2 page)

He didn’t bother to correct her error. “Please excuse me,” he said instead, hoping she’d move aside and allow him to pass.
Although she was older than when he’d last seen her, he’d immediately recognized her as his younger sister, Fiona. Not even
her domino mask made him doubt her identity as she stood before him now, reminding him of the sprite who’d tugged at his coattails
when she was little, her hands often sticky from jam as she’d done so. He allowed a sentimental smile—one that he knew she
could not see.

“Will you not offer to dance with me?” she asked.

For a second, he considered it. Indeed, his heart ached for her embrace. And yet, he could not allow himself to be tempted.
She’d only want more than what he was willing to offer, as would the rest of his sisters, not to mention his mother. In all
likelihood, revealing himself to Fiona would only serve to reignite the crying and begging that had taken place beyond his
bedroom door when he’d refused to see them after his return from France. Gradually, their voices had faded into silence, though
Richard could still hear the awful sound within the confines of his mind. He did not think that he’d be able to bear having
to witness their pain again, as would likely be the case if Fiona discovered his attendance this evening.

“Not at present,” he murmured.

For a moment, she looked a little stunned, but then she straightened herself, pressed her lips together and stepped past him.
Without another word, she disappeared quietly up the stairs. Turning, Richard watched her until she was out of sight. Again
he smiled, pleased by the cut she’d given him in response to his rudeness and comforted by the knowledge that she had grown
into the sort of lady who demanded respect.

Taking a moment to assess his surroundings, Richard walked toward the lake where the
Endurance
—a large frigate that confirmed Lady Duncaster’s fondness for the unusual—provided tables and chairs for the supper that would
take place later.

Arriving at the lakeside, he watched as a couple moved hastily toward a copse of trees on the right, disappearing completely
between the shadows. He wasn’t surprised. Masquerades were after all designed to cause mischief, which was why so many people
disapproved of them even as they couldn’t help but be intrigued.

Turning left, he approached the violinist standing furthest away, his music swirling like stardust through the air. It carried
Richard forward, all thought of revenge momentarily forgotten as the notes coursed through him, soothing his soul and calming
his heart.

It wasn’t until he’d come within ten paces of the musician that Richard realized that he wasn’t alone. Seated on a stone bench
that stood slightly concealed by a neatly trimmed hedge, was the lady he’d seen earlier on the terrace. Instinctively, he
froze, his progress halted by the vision she presented. Her eyes were closed behind her mask while a smile of pure pleasure
graced her lovely lips. By God, she was stunning, and it was all Richard could do not to fall on his knees before her like
a subservient knight to her medieval maiden.

Instead, he studied the delicate curve of her neck and the vast expanse of pale skin below. Sucking in a breath, he forced
himself not to stare or to wonder what it might be like to hold her against him . . . to lay her bare and to . . . He blinked,
aware that his heart was thumping loudly against his chest. It couldn’t be helped. She was perfect in every way—curved in
just the right places.
Christ!
His abstinence was clearly trying to knock the gentleman right out of him in favor of welcoming a scoundrel.

He glanced toward the lake, momentarily wondering if he ought to jump in it. Probably, though the idea of getting wet did
not appeal. Of course, he could simply walk away. But he did neither. Instead, he ignored what he
should
do in favor of what he
wanted
to do, and took a step forward, the gravel crunching lightly beneath his feet as he did so.

The lady opened her eyes, her lips parting slightly in surprise as she ran her gaze over him. Their eyes met, and as they
did so, Richard felt some invisible part of him reach out toward her. “My apologies,” he said, the words tripping over each
other so hastily that he had to make a deliberate effort to slow them. “I did not mean to—”

Placing her finger against her lips, she urged him into silence, and for a moment, they just stared at each other while the
music swirled around them, rising and falling in easy tones. When she patted the seat beside her and gestured for him to join
her, he did not hesitate for a second, but neither did he speak. Instead, he gave himself up to the pleasure of sharing this
wondrous moment with a perfect stranger while moonlight spilled across the water and stars winked at them from above. Astonishingly,
it did not feel awkward in any way, but rather comfortable and . . . right.

Not until the violinist ceased playing, did Richard turn toward his companion. He had no idea of how much time had passed.
“Thank you for letting me join you,” he said, his words sticking together like rubber. Curling his hand around the edge of
the bench, he swore a silent oath. Surely he could do better than this!

She turned to look at him, her eyes meeting his once more. They were just as sharp as they’d been earlier, but he noted now
that they were also vibrant and kind. “I was not expecting company, but it does please me to know that I am not the only one
enjoying the music this evening. It is impossible to listen to it properly on the terrace though. That is why I came down
here, so that I could pay proper attention to it.”

Nodding, he tried to think of a good response. “I am sure Vivaldi would be pleased if he were still alive and present.” Dipping
her chin, she encouraged him to continue. “As for me, I completely understand your reasoning. Music ought to be savored and
listened to rather than heard.”
Much better.

“Precisely.” The word was softly spoken and contained a hint of curiosity, or perhaps even suspicion. “Is that why you came
down here as well?”

“Not exactly,” he said. “I simply wished to be alone.”

Her eyes widened. “Then you must forgive me. I did not mean to impose.” She started to rise.

“No.” The word punctured the air between them, halting her just as he’d intended. “Stay,” he told her softly and with a nod
toward the bench. She lowered herself back down. “If anything,
I
should be the one to leave. You were here first.”

“I know, but perhaps you are in greater need of this bench than I.”

The way in which she spoke, with a degree of consideration he’d rarely encountered before, set her apart from any other lady
he’d ever met. “Who are you?” he asked.

Her lips curved to form a partial smile. “I thought the whole idea behind a masquerade was to remain anonymous.”

“Fair enough.” He considered her a moment. “But I would like to ensure that you are not married, affianced, or otherwise attached.
Duels can be most inconvenient, you see, which is why I do my best to avoid them at all cost.”

A soft melodious laugh broke from between her lips. “You need not fear then, for I am not attached to any gentleman in any
way, nor am I the sort of lady who inspires gentlemen to resort to such drastic measures.”

Her self-deprecation startled him. “Why would you say that?”

With a shrug, she turned her head away, offering him her profile as she stared out across the lake while wisps of hair toyed
against her cheek. “I have always favored my own company, for it allows me the peace and quiet that my soul seems to crave.
I am not a social creature, Sir, and as a result, I have never made much effort to be noticed.”

“You are a wallflower then?”

She scrunched her nose a little in response to that question. “Yes. I suppose I am.” Meeting his gaze again, she added, “I
am also quite fond of books. In case you were wondering.”

He hadn’t been, but was glad that she’d chosen to share the information with him nonetheless. Wanting to cheer her, he said,
“Then I am the most fortunate of men.”

“How so?” she asked when he hesitated.

“Well . . . not only have I noticed you before anyone else, but I am also certain that you will be able to speak with me on
matters of greater consequence than most.” Seeing her eyes brighten, he decided to try a bit of banter. “Unless of course
your preferred reading material happens to be romance, in which case I am entirely doomed.”

She laughed, just as he’d hoped. Good lord, it seemed like a lifetime since he’d last heard someone laugh. The sound spilled
over him, brightening his spirit as it lifted away the darkness.

“I must confess that I have read all of Jane Austen’s books.”

He couldn’t help but frown. “Then you have probably acquired some high expectations—expectations that no mortal man can ever
hope to live up to.”

“I am not so certain of that,” she told him seriously.

Unconvinced, he stared out across the lake, his mood no longer as light as it had been a moment earlier. “Romance novels have
nothing to do with reality.”

She was silent a moment before saying, “Perhaps if you read some of these books yourself, you will find that the heroes win
the heroines through virtuous acts like honesty, loyalty, common decency, and a healthy dose of insightfulness, none of which
are beyond the reach of any man.”

“Point taken.” Shifting, he turned more fully toward her. “But you must not forget that in these novels the heroes always
happen to be outrageously wealthy and . . . extremely handsome—a state of being which certainly
is
beyond the reach of
most
men.”

“Aha! So you
have
read Miss Austen’s books! Admit it!” She punctuated her words by jabbing him playfully in the chest with her finger.

A shock of heat darted through him. Unprepared for it, he instinctively stiffened; astounded by the effect that simple touch
had had on him. What was it she had said? With difficulty, he put his muddled mind in order and, realizing that she was staring
at him expectantly, said, “I suppose I might have stumbled upon a copy or two when I had nothing else with which to occupy
myself.”

She smiled wryly. “Then you are probably also aware that much of the romance in these books is derived from the possibility
that a woman of few means can—by proving her worth—attract the attentions of a notable gentleman. In turn, he allows his heart
to lead him into marriage regardless of what Society might think of the matter. The stories are clearly based on
Cendrillon
, which of course is the perfect formula for any fairy tale.”

He couldn’t help but be intrigued. “How so?”

She expelled a deep breath. “Because it suggests that the impossible can be attained if we are willing to fight for what we
want, make the necessary sacrifices and simply believe . . .”

Her optimistic outlook was endearing, though he was not so sure that he agreed with it. “You do not consider it wrong for
women—or even men—to suppose that the path to happiness is that simple? That there is a secret formula that, if followed,
will result in a happily-ever-after?”

“Based on a few observations I have made, I have concluded that love matches are more possible than we allow ourselves to
believe. Especially among the middle and lower classes where financial alliances are not so prevalent.”

“So what you are saying is that the less wealthy someone is, the more likely they are to marry for love?”

“It should not be the case, but I daresay that it is.” She fell silent for a moment as if pondering an idea. “Perhaps the
greatest problem among our set is our expectation.”

Determined to keep an open mind, he tried to follow this hypothesis. “You think that marriages are doomed to fail before they
even begin because couples enter into them with preconceived ideas?”

“Precisely,” she said, her eyes brimming with the awareness of mutual understanding. “Aristocrats are raised to believe that
love is secondary to wealth, status, and a desirable title. They are taught that they will one day marry for the latter and
that they will likely live separate, though comfortable, lives as a result.”

Richard considered this. He could clearly see the point she was making and found himself agreeing with her view. “Perhaps
if they were not so biased from the start, then they would have a greater chance of finding common interests, resulting in
more time spent together, which would inevitably lead to some measure of respect and perhaps even love.”

“At the very least they would probably be more happy than not.”

Impulsively, Richard reached for her gloved hand and enfolded it in his own, amazed by the sizzling energy spreading from
that simple point of contact. “You must give me a name—some means by which to address you properly.”

A moment of silence passed between them before she said. “When I ordered my gown for this evening, I was inspired by a painting
in my bedchamber. I believe it is meant to represent Eleanor of Aquitaine, so I suppose that you can call me Lady Eleanor,
if you wish.”

“Then you may call me Signor Antonio,” he said, supplying her with the same name he’d given Lady Duncaster.

With a secretive smile upon her lips, she said, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Signor.”

Raising her hand to his masked lips, he murmured, “Indeed, the pleasure is all mine.”

Mary couldn’t help but be charmed by her mysterious gentleman companion. Who was he? What did he look like? He gave neither
away with the silver mask he was wearing, but whoever he was, he had not thought her dull when she’d told him about her fondness
for solitude or about her love of reading.

She considered him now as he sat beside her, his hand still wrapped around her own. A thrill of . . . something she failed
to define . . . seeped through her, producing a most unusual sensation in the pit of her stomach. It was almost as if her
insides had grown unbearably ticklish.

Inhaling deeply, she decided to make an attempt at more conversation—something concrete that she could relate to with greater
ease than she could to the torrent of unfamiliar emotions coursing through her. “Since you are clearly not a fan of Miss Austen,
would you care to tell me which books you
do
enjoy reading?”

“You must not misunderstand me.” His words were measured, as they had been throughout their conversation. There was a wariness
about him—a distinct hint of uncertainty. Squeezing his hand, she hoped to reassure him. He flinched, but did not pull away.
“I think Miss Austen is remarkably talented and I commend her for turning her passion into a success. Furthermore, your assurance
that her books can be enjoyed without women imagining that every moment of their lives should be filled with romantic walks
and grand gestures, has helped ease my concerns.”

“That is not to say that romantic walks and grand gestures ought to be dismissed,” Mary told him lightly. “I am sure that
most women would place great value on both.”

“Would
you
?” he asked her softly.

An odd little flutter captured her heart. “Since I have no intention of marrying, it does not signify.”

He said nothing in response, but the look he gave her was so intense that Mary could not help but shift beneath his gaze.
If only they could return to the sort of repartee they’d enjoyed earlier. It had been fun, not only in an entertaining way
but in an intellectual one as well. Not at all the sort of silly conversations Mary often overheard other young ladies participating
in. The superficiality with which most of them spoke had lessened her interest in trying to make friends. In fact, she could
say with certainty that she only had one actual friend, and that was Lady Sarah, now Viscountess Spencer, after her recent
marriage to Viscount Spencer. Through her, Mary had of course become acquainted with Lord Spencer’s sisters, but Mary couldn’t
in good conscience call them friends yet, since she’d spoken to them on only a few occasions.

“When I was younger,” Signor Antonio said, breaking the silence, “I read a lot of non-fictional books on a number of subjects.”

“Did you have any favorites?” Mary asked, relieved by the change of subject.

“I liked Sun Tzu’s
Art De La Guerre
very much
.
It is the only book that I have read more than once.”

“
The Art of War
,” Mary translated.

Signor Antonio nodded. “Have you read it?” he asked with interest.

“Not in its entirety. It was one of those books that I just happened to snatch off the shelf one rainy afternoon and never
ended up finishing. As I recall, it was philosophical in nature.”

“Yes. In my opinion it is the most impressive work on military strategy ever written.”

She considered this before saying, “Some might argue that Machiavelli’s book,
The Prince
, is of greater value.”

“Hmmm . . . Another book that you happened to browse through on a rainy day?”

Mary couldn’t help but smile, aware that she’d probably surprised him once again.
The Prince
was hardly the sort of book that most young ladies would ever bother reading. Perhaps they should, so they could enjoy more
meaningful conversations with men. “Something like that,” she admitted. She shrugged one shoulder. “As with the
Art of War
, I failed to complete it, but in this instance, it was mostly because I found it to be entirely too devious and self-serving
for my liking.”

“Deception, as advocated by Machiavelli, can be a powerful tool when used correctly.”

Something about his tone—a hint of contemplative sharpness—sent a shiver down her spine. “Perhaps, but I believe that it will
eventually corrupt the soul and that it is therefore a path best avoided.”

His hand tightened around hers, almost painfully so, and she instinctively drew back.

Releasing her, he abruptly stood and stepped toward the lake, offering her his back while he stared out across the moonlit
water. “Forgive me,” he said when he faced her again after a long, drawn-out moment. “I am sorry if I frightened you just
now, but our conversation . . . it prompted some unpleasant memories.”

His confession surprised her. “I do not understand,” she said.

“And you never will,” he told her grimly, “for you have not experienced the horrors of war. Nothing encourages a man to reveal
his true nature quite as well as the possibility that he will not survive to live another day.”

Understanding dawned and she slowly rose to her feet. “You are a soldier,” she whispered through the darkness. He hadn’t read
the books they’d been discussing for pleasure alone, but for a professional reason as well.

“I used to be,” he quietly murmured.

Curious, she couldn’t help but ask, “Did you kill anyone?” His eyes widened and she pushed out a breath before lowering her
gaze to the ground. “Of course you did. I was not trying to—”

“It’s all right.” He waited for her to raise her head and look at him before saying, “Wars cost lives. There is no denying
that. So yes, Lady Eleanor, I have killed.”

“And if you had not?” The words swirled softly in the warm night air.

“Then they would have killed me.” Detecting the anguish behind his words, she felt her chest tighten around her heart, squeezing
it until it ached. “To this day, their faces haunt me—the terror in their eyes a constant reminder of the blood I have shed
for England.”

“For freedom.”

He scoffed at that. “Whatever the reason, the price was too high.”

She couldn’t argue with that. “But surely you must have saved some lives as well.” When he nodded, she reached for his hand
and said, “Tell me about the people you rescued.”

Dipping his head, he closed his eyes, his bearing so still that she imagined he must be looking into the past. When he eventually
looked at her again, his eyes shone like drops of ink. “Perhaps some other time.”

Mary knew better than to press him for more information. She could tell by the tone of his voice that it was a subject she
shouldn’t pursue. Still, she could not help but wonder about his experiences. Had he fought in the Peninsula War, the War
of 1812, or the Battle of Waterloo? She’d forgotten to ask. Perhaps he’d even been wounded. If so, then how?

A gradual murmur of strings rising through the silence drew her attention away from these contemplations and toward the
Endurance
where guests were presently beginning to gather. “I believe it is time for supper,” she found herself saying. “Will you escort
me?”

He hesitated briefly before offering her his arm. “With pleasure.”

A gentle tremor swept through Mary’s body as she linked her arm with his, the firmness of him beneath the wool of his jacket
making her exceedingly aware of the strength that he possessed. She tried to think of something to say—some inane topic with
which to lighten the mood and, perhaps more importantly, to distract her from the way he made her feel. “Signor Antonio, I—”

He drew her closer, his hold on her tightening as he started leading her toward the ship. Mary inhaled sharply, her entire
world tumbling toward the unknown as his scent assaulted her senses: the masculine smell of sandalwood mingling with brandy
and a faint hint of tobacco. Her heart rate accelerated—more so as she felt her upper arm pressed against his.

“Perhaps after supper, you will grant me a dance?” His voice was low, a gravelly whisper that brushed the side of her neck.

Focusing on her breaths, Mary struggled to regain control. Her reaction was purely physical, she reminded herself—the thrill
of winning a gentleman’s favor for the very first time. And yet she knew that there was more to it than that. She’d genuinely
enjoyed their conversation and sensed that he had as well. “I have promised to dance the reel with Viscount Bertram, and after
that is the country dance with the Earl of Rotridge.”

“I see.” They walked a few more paces before he asked, “Are you free for the waltz?”

“I . . .” She felt herself grow inexplicably warmer. “I must admit that I have never danced it before. I am not familiar with
the steps.”

His hold on her tightened even further. “The waltz is simpler than the other dances. I trust we can manage.” The words rumbled
around her as he spoke. “Besides, I do believe it is the only dance worthy of a woman like you.”

“A woman like me?”

Turning his head, his eyes met hers from behind his mask. The intensity of his gaze sent a rush of heat spiraling along her
limbs. “I saw you when you were listening to the music. Your eyes were closed and your expression was filled not only with
pleasure, but with deep focus.” Nearing the gangway leading onto the
Endurance,
they found themselves gradually surrounded by other guests who were making their way to supper. He lowered his voice and
dipped his head toward hers. “It appeared as though you were listening to a story.”

“Of course I was,” she said as he guided her onto the gangplank and escorted her aboard. “A piece of music is not merely a
collection of notes strung together with the sole purpose of pleasing the senses. There is always a story.”

“One that most people are incapable of hearing unless someone tells them what it is,” he said. “And even then they often lack
the patience required. But you clearly heard it. This knowledge, coupled with your fondness for Miss Austen’s books, suggests
that you are a romantic, possessing a creative mind and a passionate nature. It therefore goes without saying that the waltz
is the only dance that will move you, and consequently the only one worth dancing.”

His analysis made her feel slightly dizzy. It was true that she’d never had a particular fondness for dancing, perhaps because
she’d always felt that most dances were a poor expression of the music, completely lacking in any emotion. But the waltz . . .
she had to admit that the waltz had always tempted because it seemed to allow for a deeper expression.

Stepping down from the gangplank and onto the deck of the ship, she held on to Signor Antonio’s arm as they drifted between
the round tables dotting the deck. Each had been dressed in pristine white with bouquets of bright red roses adorning the
centers. Spotting Sarah, Mary tapped her companion on the arm. “I see my friend, Viscountess Spencer,” she said. “Perhaps
we can join her and her husband?”

Signor Antonio stiffened as he looked in the direction she indicated. “It seems rather crowded over there, does it not?”

“Not especially,” Mary said, a little surprised by his obvious reluctance. “But if you would rather stay here, then—”

“No. I will not keep you from your friend, my lady.” Releasing her arm, he took a step back, leaving Mary bereft. “Enjoy your
supper with the Spencers, and your dances with Bertram and Rotridge. I will find you when it is time for the waltz.” Reaching
for her hand, he bowed over it with reverence. Then, straightening himself once more, he hesitated only a moment before turning
away and striding back toward the gangplank. In an instant, it was almost as if he’d never been there at all.

Mary’s chest tightened, and she deliberately took a breath to force back the feeling of loss that assailed her. She was being
ridiculously silly. After all, she’d barely known him for more than one hour. And yet within that hour, she’d felt a connection
blossoming between them. For the first time in her life, she’d felt both beautiful and understood.

“Who was that?” Sarah asked when Mary joined her.

“Someone with whom I seem to have a great deal in common.”

Sarah smiled. “Commonality is a wonderful foundation for a lasting relationship.”

“We have only just met,” Mary confessed. She frowned in response to her own words. “Or at least I believe we have. I did not
recognize his voice.”

“You have not seen his face?” Sarah asked with a note of surprise and interest.

Mary shrugged one shoulder. “It is a masquerade. The novelty lies in the mystery.” In truth, the more she’d spoken to Signor
Antonio, the less she’d cared about what he might look like beneath his mask, though she’d be lying to herself if she said
she wasn’t curious.

“I suppose that is true to some extent,” Sarah agreed. “Besides, a man may be the handsomest one in the world, but that is
neither here nor there if he lacks the ability for intelligent thought and conversation.”

“I completely agree,” Mary said. Her eyes strayed to Lord Spencer who was too busy talking to his friend, the Earl of Chadwick,
to be paying attention to the conversation that Mary was having with his wife. “But it does look as though you have managed
to acquire a husband who lacks neither wits nor looks.”

Smiling broadly, Sarah sighed with obvious contentment. “I know. I am the most fortunate woman there is.” Lowering her voice
to a whisper, she leaned a little closer to Mary and said, “Perhaps you can be too.”

Mary felt her spine stiffen. “A brief encounter with a perfect stranger is hardly enough to suggest an imminent courtship.”

“You never know,” Sarah insisted. “It did for me.”

“Yes, but your situation is entirely different. You have always wanted to get married.”

“And you have not?”

The look of incomprehension in Sarah’s eyes made Mary feel like a whale who’d somehow managed to get itself stuck inside a
fish bowl. She shook her head. “I like my life the way it is.”

“But what about your aunt? I thought she brought you here with the sole purpose of securing a good match for you.”