The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (33 page)

Her sister's face clouded. “We were only dancing. I thought you didn't like him, so I didn't see the harm in—”

“I know he seems charming, Caroline,” Margaret interrupted. “I thought so too at first, but he pressured me to marry him in a most ungentlemanlike manner. For the inheritance. That is why I left.”

Caroline shook her head. “But I have no inheritance.”

Margaret closed her eyes and asked for patience. “Money isn't the only thing men want.” Suddenly she sensed someone watching her from the side of the room.

She glanced over and saw Nathaniel Upchurch staring at her from behind his mask, looking as though he had seen a ghost. Did he see a woman he once knew? Or was he stunned for another reason—did he see “Nora” masquerading as a lady in a blond wig?

———

Were his eyes playing tricks on him—was this a figment of his imagination? For there stood Margaret Macy in all her fair glory. A mass of white-gold hair crowning her head, curls on delicate bare shoulders. Her gown shimmered white and seemed somehow familiar. The small mask she wore did little to disguise the blue eyes, the high cheekbones, the arch of golden brows, the sensible nose, the wide, shapely mouth he had memorized and dreamt about.

How could he be certain? She was wearing a mask, after all. Was it wishful thinking on his part? He knew himself fallible in recognizing women who'd changed their hair color. But, no. It was her. He knew it.

A rush of emotions swamped him. Curiosity. Concern. Why was she revealing herself here and now, when the men she had ostensibly been hiding from were in attendance that very moment? Did she not know? Should he warn her?

Nathaniel watched surreptitiously as Margaret spoke earnestly with a younger girl—her sister, he believed. When she turned and would have hailed the Bentons, Margaret gripped her arms and stayed the gesture. Clearly Margaret wanted to talk to her sister alone, likely to assure her she was all right.

Margaret glanced over her shoulder, and Nathaniel followed the direction of her gaze. Sterling Benton suddenly straightened, eyes alert. Nathaniel straightened as well.

He could stand back and watch or he could do something to help her. He did not know exactly what she was after or what she was up against, but he knew she was eager to avoid Sterling Benton. The look of fear on her face made his decision for him.

Pulling off his mask, Nathaniel strode over to her, reaching Margaret just ahead of Sterling. Margaret whirled, prepared to take flight, but Nathaniel blocked her way.

Jaw clenched, he offered his arm. “My waltz, I believe.”

She stared up at him, mouth slack. He was oddly tempted to strum his thumb over her protruding lower lip.

Instead Nathaniel took her hand, tucked it beneath his arm, and all but pulled her onto the dance floor. Behind him he heard the low rumble of Benton's voice, peppering the sister with terse questions.

What am I doing?
Nathaniel berated himself. How did asking Margaret Macy to dance jibe with his determination to avoid her? How would feeling the warmth of her hand spread up his arm and into his chest help him forget her?

He bowed to her, and she, belatedly, curtsied. For a moment he feared the tall wig would topple from her head.

“Mr. Upchurch?” she whispered, breathless before the dance had even begun.

“Yes, Miss . . . ?” He lifted his brows expectedly.

She frowned. “Miss Macy. Margaret Macy.”

He lifted his chin. “Ah. I thought so, but I was not certain I was supposed to recognize you.”

Her brow furrowed.

“With your mask, I mean.”

“Oh!” She blushed and reached up to touch her mask, as though she had forgotten she wore one.

The music passed the introductory notes and swelled into tempo. Nathaniel grew increasingly disquieted by the direct stare of her blue eyes. He looked instead down at her waist, more disquieting yet, and placed his hands there.
Oh, not helping at all.

She reached up and placed her hands on his forearms.

Quite the opposite.
One tug and she would be in his arms, snug against him. He grimaced, attempting to banish the thought.

Her eyes widened. “Did I step on your foot? I am sorry if I did.”

“Not at all.”

She lifted her chin. “You needn't dance with me if you don't wish to.”

He glanced over and glimpsed the Benton party gaping at them. Lewis and Saxby as well. “I thought you might appreciate the . . . diversion.”

He tightened his grip on her waist and whirled her around, too preoccupied to recall the various positions of the German and French waltz. She seemed preoccupied as well, craning her neck to look over his shoulder, keeping an eye on the Bentons as she spun past.

“All of London speaks of you. Of your disappearance,” he said, as they repeated the basic step and turns.

“Do they?”

“Is that why you came? To prove you are alive and well?”

A worry line appeared between her brows above the mask. “In part, yes.”

“Then why not remove your mask and show the world who you really are?”

“It is a masquerade, Mr. Upchurch.”

“Ah. I see. And you are the queen of disguises.”

She darted a look up at him, unsure of his meaning.

Lewis appeared beside them, roguish grin on his handsome face. “Miss Macy, as I live and breathe! How I have longed to see you again. Do say you'll dance with me. Nate won't mind if I cut in. Will you, ol' boy?”

Nathaniel felt the old stab of jealousy. He glanced from his brother's face—perfectly confident she would agree—to Margaret's.

She looked at Lewis squarely and said, “Actually, I would prefer to dance with your brother.”

Lewis's mouth parted in disbelief.

Heart lifting, Nathaniel whirled Margaret away from his stunned brother. It was likely the first time a woman had turned him down for anything.

His fleeting feeling of victory faded, for Margaret suddenly looked quite distressed.

“Mr. Upchurch,” she fumbled. “I . . . I must take my leave directly. But before I go, allow me to say how sorry I am for the callous way I treated you in the past. I regret it most keenly.”

His heart squeezed even as he felt his brows rise. “Do you?”

She swallowed. “I was wrong about you. I was wrong about a great many things.”

He stared at her. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Sterling Benton striding purposely around the perimeter of the room in their direction. Their time was nearly up.

“I fear Mr. Benton may try to cut in next,” he said. Lewis had likely put the idea into his head.

She paled.

Nathaniel looked toward the main doors, where Hudson hovered. When their eyes met he lifted his chin. His steward instantly straightened to attention. Nathaniel nodded toward Benton with a pointed look, then lifted one finger at half mast and tapped his lips—a signal devised after working many auctions together, buying supplies and selling sugar.

Hudson followed his gaze and nodded.

As the music ended, Nathaniel whirled Margaret toward the second pair of doors and bowed over her hand. “I think, Miss Macy, you had better go the way you came and quickly.”

“Oh . . .” she murmured, breathless. “Thank
you
.” She held his gaze a moment longer, the emphasis on the
you
plucking a taut chord in his chest, pleasure and pain. It seemed clear she was thanking him for more than the dance.

She turned and hurried from the room.

Nathaniel glanced over and saw Sterling Benton making a beeline for the main doors. Hudson stepped directly into his path, and the two men collided shoulder to chest. Hudson was broader than elegant Sterling Benton, and the impact stunned the slender man momentarily.

He snarled, “I say, have a care.”

———

Margaret rushed from the room, Cendrillon fleeing the ball, the clock striking midnight and her ruse nearly up. Shivering in icy anticipation, she expected any moment for Sterling to grip her shoulder from behind. But, miraculously, she entered the hall alone.

She looked right and left and, seeing no one about, rushed across the hall and down the far corridor to the back stairs. She prayed she would not be turned away by one of the servants. As she reached the stairs, she nearly collided with Craig coming down, but he leapt aside, murmuring, “Pardon me, madam.”

Hurrying up the steps, she hoped Sterling would not ask Craig if he'd seen a lady matching her description.

In the upstairs corridor, she looked ahead and saw Betty—
Betty!
—scurrying along carrying an extra blanket. Betty would recognize her if anyone would. Margaret ducked her head, feigning an interest in her sleeve, but when she risked a glance, she saw Betty with her nose pressed to the wall.

How strange to see Betty become “invisible” in her presence. Years of practice and exhortations had made the action second nature, like a turtle retreating into its shell at the first sign of danger. Margaret felt amusement mixed with chagrin that Betty should face the wall for
her.
How she would chafe if she knew. But there was no time to waste now. She needed to slip into Miss Helen's bedchamber and change back into her customary attire.

Margaret decided that enough people had seen and recognized her to quash the rumors of her death. Dancing around the room in full view of everyone had been brazen but effective. She wouldn't have risked it had Nathaniel not all but pulled her onto the floor. Now she was glad he had. She was glad, too, to have that chance, though brief, to speak to Nathaniel as herself. She had very much wished to say something to melt the icy wall between them—her fault. But with Sterling Benton breathing down her neck, she had fumbled to find the words.

She hoped he'd understood.

“A thousand pardons, sir,” Hudson said to Sterling Benton, all meekness as he made a show of straightening the man's coat. “I am terribly sorry. Please excuse me.”

Nathaniel stepped out into the hall, in time to hear retreating footfalls hurry not to the outside doors, nor up the main stairs, but rather down an interior passage—one that led to the servants' stairs. He walked casually toward the front doors.

She had been right not to take the formal stairway that rose from the hall, for she never would have ascended from sight in time.

Sterling Benton rushed into the hall, looking this way and that. Seeing him, Sterling said, “Upchurch. The lady you were dancing with, is she . . . ?”

“Gone. You just missed her. Her carriage was ready and waiting.”

“What? Where was she going? Do you know?”

“I don't.” He glanced at his steward behind Sterling. “Do you, Hudson?”

“I am afraid not, sir.”

Sterling fidgeted. “Did you . . . recognize her?”

“Yes. Did you?”

“I . . . did not have the opportunity to speak with her. Caroline said it was Margaret. I wanted to believe her, but I thought perhaps she was mistaken—wishful thinking, you know.”

Nathaniel placed a hand on the man's shoulder, ostensibly in comfort, but in reality, to make sure he did not rush upstairs and begin searching the house. “What a relief it must be to know Miss Macy is alive and well. Those rumors put to bed.”

“Yes,” Sterling murmured. “Yes, of course.”

“She did seem determined to avoid you tonight. Any idea why?”

The man's blue eyes glinted, ice cold. “No. None at all.”

———

The Bentons took their leave soon after, perhaps to ride off in search of the fleeing Margaret, or possibly to avoid the resulting questions and rumors her appearance had caused. They were a grim-faced lot, each for his or her own reason, no doubt. Nathaniel was not sorry to see them go.

He returned to the ball. He had been so distracted by the unexpected appearance of Margaret Macy that he had nearly forgotten the reason for the ball in the first place—to reintroduce Helen to society and society to Helen. He was glad the near-confrontation between Margaret and the Bentons had not marred the occasion for her. He hoped his sister was enjoying herself. He knew she was realistic enough about her age and moderate beauty not to expect to cause a stir among the single gentlemen or anything as fancifully romantic as that. But he did hope she was becoming reacquainted with her female friends and their husbands.

He had seen Helen dance with Lewis earlier—an act which had raised Nathaniel's esteem and affection for his sometimes thoughtless brother. Now Nathaniel planned to claim Helen for a second dance. There was no reason she should sit along the sidelines of her very own ball.

He looked for her among the chattering clutch of matrons seated together beyond the punch table, fanning themselves, but did not find her. He looked through to the adjoining drawing room, where gentlemen congregated around card tables, but saw no sign of her there either. Was she off in the dining room, overseeing final preparations for the midnight supper? She ought to leave that to Mrs. Budgeon.