The Baron's Governess Bride (14 page)

The six of them enjoyed a convivial tea. Lord Benedict seemed a trifle awkward to be the only gentleman among five females, but the girls soon drew him out, asking where he lived, how he had come to meet his bride and how many horses he owned. Under cover of their lively conversation, Rebecca and Grace were able to exchange a few quiet words—enough for Grace to learn that her friend was deeply in love with her new husband.

“Every morning I’m afraid I will open my eyes to discover all this happiness is only a dream,” Rebecca whispered. “But I am always grateful to discover it is true. Even when I was at odds with Sebastian over his brother’s engagement, I could tell what a good man he was. I never imagined he would think of someone like me for a wife.”

“I think he is fortunate to have you.” Grace reached under the table to give her friend’s hand a warm squeeze. “And I am delighted he recognizes his good fortune and makes you so happy.”

Her friend’s joy in her marriage forced Grace to acknowledge a yearning for that sort of connection with a good man. Though she must admit there was only one man she thought of in that way. Unfortunately, he had no interest in any relationship that might put his heart at risk.

After tea, Lord and Lady Benedict took their leave.

“I know you have your duties,” said Rebecca as they departed, “but I hope we can see each other as much as possible while I am in the neighborhood. Would you and the girls care to take a carriage ride with us tomorrow?”

She went on to suggest a number of other outings to which Charlotte, Phoebe and Sophie responded eagerly.

“Don’t forget Lord Maidenhead’s masquerade,” Rebecca’s husband reminded her. “We took the liberty of securing you an invitation, Miss Ellerby.” The earl reached into his pocket and drew out a handsomely engraved card.

When he offered it to her, Grace drew back as if he were trying to give her a giant spider. “That is kind of you, but I couldn’t possibly attend.”

“Why not?” Phoebe snatched the invitation from Lord Benedict’s hand.

When Grace cried out the child’s name in a sharp tone, Charlotte sprang to her sister’s defense. “Phoebe is right, Miss Ella. You must go to the ball!”

Grace could tell by the looks they exchanged that they had some scheme in mind—one that would involve her.

Chapter Eleven

“Y
ou
have
to go to that ball, Miss Ella!” The girls’ pleas grew more and more insistent as the week wore on. “In case Papa tries to propose to Mrs. Cadmore, you must stop him.”

“How do you expect me to do that?” Grace tried to resist, though the prospect of dressing up and attending a masquerade tempted her far more than she dared admit. “And how will I even recognize them?”

“It won’t be difficult to pick out Papa,” Charlotte assured her. “He always wears the same costume. I can draw you a sketch of it. And we can ask Mrs. Cadmore what she means to wear, just for good measure. As for how to stop Papa proposing, I’m sure you will think of something.”

“Cause a distraction,” Phoebe suggested.

“Spill something on her gown.” Sophie’s sweet young face twisted in a devious grin.

Grace hated to admit how much the girls’ outrageous plan appealed to her. For weeks she had felt helpless to prevent Lord Steadwell from making a grave mistake. The temptation to take some action, no matter how futile, threatened to overcome her scruples.

She made one last attempt to dissuade the girls…and herself. “Even if I do what you ask, it would only delay the inevitable. Your father could still propose to Mrs. Cadmore the next day or the next.”

“Perhaps.” Charlotte shrugged. “But any delay will give Papa a chance to reconsider. Please say you’ll do it, Miss Ella!”

The younger girls joined in a beseeching chorus that Grace could not have withstood even if she’d been far more determined. She did put up a token resistance by reminding them she had no costume fit to attend such a lavish gathering.

“That old gown from the painting fits you very well,” Sophie reminded her.

“But surely you father would recognize it from the painting,” Grace protested.

“Men never pay that much attention to clothes.” Charlotte replied airily.

When Rebecca added her persuasive voice to those of the children, Grace soon found herself talked into doing what she secretly wanted.

* * *

The evening of the ball found her gowned and masked, her hair freed from the confines of that ugly old cap and dressed in a becoming style that matched the era of her costume. For the first little while she stuck close to Rebecca and Lord Benedict, but gradually she grew braver. Among the crowd of masked guests, she felt anonymous and free to be herself for the first time since coming to Nethercross.

She had not accepted the invitation for her own amusement, Grace reminded herself. The girls were counting on her to keep watch on their father and prevent him from doing something they all might bitterly regret.

At that moment she spied a lady in a Columbine costume, which was what Mrs. Cadmore had told the girls she would be wearing. Casting a backward glance at her friends on the dance floor, Grace slipped off through the crowd in pursuit. She followed the lady out of the ballroom, down a long gallery and into a large drawing room. When she finally managed to get close enough for a good look at Columbine’s escort her spirits sank, for the gentleman was dressed as Punch and stood a full head shorter than Lord Steadwell.

Grace headed back to the ballroom, all the while scanning the crowd for the couple she sought. Suddenly, a man stepped into her path. A little taller than she and rather stout, he wore the flowing robes of an eastern sultan in the most garish mix of colors. His head was swathed in an enormous purple turban.

“Looking for someone, are you, fair lady?” Predatory eyes glittered through the slits of his black mask. “Has your escort been so negligent as to lose you in the crowd?”

“I have no escort, sir. I came with friends. I thought I saw someone I recognized and followed to speak with them, but I was mistaken. Pray excuse me.” Grace darted past him, out of the drawing room and back down the gallery.

Then another Columbine caught her eye. Though her brush with the sultan had unnerved her, Grace knew she must concentrate on her mission. Changing course, she made her way back through the gallery to the music room, where a string consort was playing for a dozen couples to dance. After a moment, Grace picked out Columbine and her partner. This one was a gangly stork of a gentleman dressed as Robin Hood.

“Such a lovely lady, attending a ball with no escort?” A suggestive murmur in her ear made Grace recoil from the odious sultan once again. “That is an unpardonable shame. Pray do me the honor of a dance, fair one, so we may become better acquainted.”

“I do not wish to dance, sir.” Grace’s throat tightened. “I only want to find my friends. Good evening to you.”

She spun away and fled to the ballroom only to find no sign of Lord and Lady Benedict. Suddenly the gaze of every gentleman in the room seemed to be following her. Striving to subdue her mounting alarm, she approached a lady in a ruff and farthingale.

“Pardon me. Have you seen a couple who were dancing here a short time ago?” She described the costumes her friends were wearing.

To her relief the woman nodded. “They left after the last dance. In that direction, I believe. Likely in search of refreshment.”

Grace thanked the lady and headed off the way she’d been pointed. She almost bumped into another Columbine, but this one was far too tiny to be Mrs. Cadmore. Even if she had answered the lady’s description in every particular, Grace was not certain it would have made any difference. Her aim now was to regain the safety of her friends’ company.

But they proved every bit as elusive as Lord Steadwell and Mrs. Cadmore. Grace checked a number of rooms to no avail, her unease growing. Where could they be?

She circled around a clutch of chattering, laughing guests only to find her way blocked by the sultan again. How could it be so difficult to find either of the two couples she sought, while the man she was determined to avoid appeared around every corner?

“We meet again, my dear.” His lips spread in a leering grin. “It seems the Fates are conspiring to bring us together. Will you reconsider my invitation to dance? I assure you, it will be a far pleasanter way to pass the time than hurrying about, getting yourself all flushed and bothered. Though the former is quite becoming.”

Why must this odious man besiege her with his attentions? Did he think she was playing coy to rouse his interest?

“The Fates may conspire all they like, sir. I have no intention of dancing with you, so pray do not ask me again.” She fled from the sultan in a blind panic, not caring which way she went as long as it was away from him.

What had made her think she could attend an event crammed with wealthy, powerful men who felt entitled to take whatever they wanted from a woman? Worse yet she had been foolish enough to flaunt her looks and figure in such a flattering gown, with only the flimsy disguise of a mask to conceal her identity.

Had the fact that Lord Steadwell behaved with honor toward dowdy Miss Ellerby made her forget the liberties other men were eager to take with an attractive woman? Or had she been willing to run that risk in the hope that her master would see her true appearance and be drawn to her? How could her fancy for him have grown to such self-destructive heights when she had done everything in her power to suppress it? Could those efforts have only intensified her feelings—like putting a stopper in the spout of a boiling kettle?

Those thoughts flitted through Grace’s mind like a flock of frightened starlings as she strove to escape the lecher who pursued her. But they only added to her growing alarm, which the predator seemed to scent. The long curled toes of his slippers did not slow him down. At last he cornered her in a distant sitting room where refreshments were being dispensed.

“Let me help you to a cup of punch, dear lady,” he insisted. “Then perhaps you will feel more like dancing.”

Though Grace told herself her virtue was safe with so many people around, no one seemed to notice or care that she was being harassed by this horrible man. His relentless pursuit revived terrifying memories of the night she’d returned to her quarters and discovered her master’s uncle waiting for her.

He had flattered her and offered to make her his mistress. When she declined and tried to flee, he had blocked her way and attempted to take by force what she refused to surrender willingly. Somehow she had fought her way free, escaped from him and hid below the stairs until the next morning when she’d crept out, packed and given immediate notice. She hadn’t bothered to tell her mistress what happened—she’d learned the folly of doing that in her previous position. She sensed Mrs. Hesketh suspected something amiss, though the lady did not bother to seek the truth. Perhaps guilt for that had led her to give Grace the good reference.

“Please, sir, let me be!” Grace implored her pursuer. Though only a few inches taller than she, the sultan looked easily capable of overpowering her. “I have told you I do not wish to dance. I am trying to find my friends.”

She peered about for any sign of Rebecca and Lord Benedict. Why had she been so daft to stray from the protection of their company?

“They are poor friends if they let you wander off, my beauty.” He seized her hand and subjected it to the assault of his demanding lips. The sensation made Grace’s gorge rise. The heavy musk of sandalwood that wafted off him sickened her further. “Make me your new friend and I assure you I will be more constant.”

“Please, sir, keep your distance! The last thing I want from you is constancy!” She wanted to scream for help, but her fear of drawing attention to herself was even greater than her terror of him. Since she’d left school and the protection of her friends, harsh experience had taught her that no one would come to her rescue.

* * *

Had he been there long enough? Rupert peered around one of the less crowded refreshment rooms at the Countess of Maidenhead’s Victory Masquerade and wondered if anyone would notice if he went home early.

The evening had not turned out at all the way he’d planned. He had been so certain a masked ball would provide the perfect setting to tender his marriage proposal. In the convivial atmosphere, with their faces partially hidden, he could pretend that he and Mrs. Cadmore were different people entirely. That might provide the spur he needed to overcome his irrational reluctance.

He had been all dressed and ready to set out when he received a message from Dungrove that Mrs. Cadmore would not be able to attend the masquerade after all. Young Henry had fallen ill and she could not bring herself to leave his side. Rupert did not blame her for putting the welfare of her son above all other considerations. After all, it was her motherly devotion he most valued in his prospective bride. Yet he regretted this missed opportunity to propose. When would he find another quite so good?

Part of him wanted to shed this costume and spend the evening at home since his chief purpose in attending had evaporated. Then he caught sight of his reflection in the looking glass and realized that would not be wise. His costume was called a
bauta
. The sweeping cloak and cowl topped with a large black tricorne were the traditional disguise worn in Venice during Carnivale. Its featureless white mask covered the entire face except the mouth and chin. His uncle had brought one back from his Grand Tour. Rupert had worn it a number of times over the years, dismissing Annabelle’s claim that it defeated the purpose of a masquerade to always wear the same costume.

If only he were not so well known by his Venetian
bauta,
he might have stayed away from tonight’s masquerade and no one would have been the wiser. But he did not want his absence to be noted and commented upon. It would appear unpatriotic and nothing could be further from the truth. He loved this land and its people. He rejoiced that it was safe from conquest at last. He honored the sacrifice of those who had fought to keep it free. Attending an evening’s entertainment was little enough he could do to show his gratitude.

Yet he knew better than to suppose he would enjoy the evening for its own sake. He’d never been comfortable in large crowds. The only thing that had made such events bearable in the past was Annabelle’s enjoyment of them. He had been content to bask in her pleasure. Left to his own devices he preferred to stay at home, savoring a quiet stroll under the linden trees or watching the sun set and the first stars appear in the evening sky.

The masquerade was well under way when Rupert arrived. It seemed at least half the
ton
had made the trek into Berkshire for the countess’s ball. Every room was packed with garishly costumed guests drinking and talking loudly. The warm, still air hung heavy with the conflicting scents of expensive perfume. It made Rupert’s stomach roil.

Picking his way through the celebrating throng, he acknowledged the hearty greetings of several people he did not recognize but who clearly knew him. At last he found a less crowded room, drawn there by the whisper of a breeze wafting through a pair of glass doors that opened onto the countess’s magnificent gardens. Rupert collected a cup of punch from the refreshment table and retired to a spot near the open doors.

An hour later, as he was debating whether it was too early to head home, he became aware of a disturbance nearby. A man in the garb of an Oriental sultan was making a nuisance of himself with a fair-haired beauty. Something about the lady seemed familiar to Rupert, though he could not guess who she might be. She wore a Stuart-era gown of coral pink with a full skirt and enormous puffed sleeves trimmed with lace. Her golden curls were pulled into two bunches of ringlets, framing her delicate features. She looked soft, feminine and vulnerable to the unwanted attentions of the scoundrel who pursued her so relentlessly.