Behind The Baron's Mask: A Regency Romance (Resolved In Love Book 1)

by Penny Fairbanks

  Miss Richards giggled quietly. “Everyone needs something to cherish. I’m happy I could help in some fashion.”

  Henry felt himself relax as she easily accepted his half-truth. No, Henry realized—it was the truth.

  They continued on their slow path, Henry contentedly answering Miss Richards’s questions about the décor or listening to her keen observations on all manner of subjects. Henry had never pictured himself escorting a lady about his drawing room, but he felt surprisingly comfortable given his nerves earlier in the day.

  But Henry’s peace was soon disturbed as they approached an unassuming end table that contained an unfortunately revealing bit of evidence. He had been so enamored with Miss Richards’s conversation that he entirely forgot that the letter he’d received from his publisher this morning still sat open for anyone to see on the end table.

  Hey may have missed it himself if it hadn’t been for Miss Richards’s dress brushing against the table and catching the corner of the letter, knocking it to the ground. Henry’s eyes fell on the logo at the top of the letter and his heart leapt into his throat.

  “My apologies!” She removed her arm from his and hastily bent her knees to reach for the fallen letter.

  “Allow me!” Henry cried out and nearly fell to his knee as he grasped the letter now in Miss Richards’s hand, his fingers brushing over hers. She quickly relinquished it to him.

  Henry clutched the page to his chest and attempted to stand but his head knocked against something hard, forcing him to fall back onto his rear. The pain pulsed through Henry’s forehead and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing it to dissipate quickly.

  “Cecilia! What are you doing on the floor?! You ungraceful girl!” Mrs. Richards’s sharp voice cut through the room and Henry opened an eye to assess the situation.

  Miss Richards sat before him on the rug, her skirts pooled up around her and a hand pressed to her temple. She glanced over at him, her pained grimace giving way to a quiet laugh.

  Henry quickly pushed himself up to his feet and held a hand out to Miss Richards. “I’m terribly sorry! Mrs. Richards, this was my fault. I accidentally bumped Miss Richards as I retrieved something that had fallen to the ground.”

  Miss Richards stifled a giggle as she accepted Henry’s helping hand. A soft blush spread across her high cheekbones. Over her shoulder, Henry could see Mrs. Richards eyeing them carefully but her small smile seemed to indicate that she accepted Henry’s explanation.

  “Do be more careful next time, Cecilia dear,” Mrs. Richards huffed.

  “Yes, Mama.” Miss Richards smiled sheepishly at Henry. “Thank you for your assistance, my lord. I apologize for causing such a ruckus.”

  “It’s nothing to worry about, I assure you.”

  Now that everyone had regained their feet, Henry remembered the damning letter in his hand. He shot a glance to Solomon, who stood still along the opposite wall with Miss Juliet on his arm, watching the scene unfold.

  “My goodness, I could talk for hours about all the pieces in Lord Neil’s home. There are so many beautiful and unique items here with rich histories. As a matter of fact, I think I could use some refreshments. If you will excuse me, Miss Juliet.” Without missing a beat, Solomon picked up on Henry’s silent plea for help.

  He gave a faux cough to indicate his supposedly hoarse voice and the Richardses all laughed at his joke. He led Miss Juliet to the center of the room to her parents and Henry did the same with Miss Richards. The two men went together to the service bell and awaited the footman.

  “Thank you for rescuing me,” Henry whispered breathlessly.

  “And what am I supposed to have rescued you from?” Solomon arched a curious eyebrow.

  Henry had folded the letter into a small square and kept it tucked securely in the palm of his hand. He turned his hand up just enough for Solomon to catch a glimpse of it.

  “Miss Richards accidentally brushed this off my end table as we walked by. We both went to pick it up and bumped heads. It’s a letter from my publisher that I received this morning. I must have forgotten it on the table in my anxiety to oversee the preparations for this dinner.”

  “Goodness. You don’t think she saw any revealing information, did she?”

  “I hope to God she did not…” Henry groaned quietly, fear spiking in his heart again. “A pot of tea, please,” he commanded when the footman arrived, hoping his voice did not give away the fact that he felt his knees would buckle at any moment.

  Henry and Solomon made their way back to the rest of their party. “She doesn’t appear to have any suspicions,” Solomon whispered as they approached the Richards family now seated on plush chairs around the center of the drawing room.

  Despite Henry’s desire to avoid looking at Miss Richards entirely lest he see any questions in her eyes, he forced himself to observe her. To his great relief, she simply sat next to her sister with an attentive expression as Miss Juliet shared some tale with her. When the two men approached, she glanced up to Henry with a gentle smile. Henry returned it, glad that she seemed unaffected by any new knowledge of her dinner host’s secret life.

  The tea arrived quickly and the small party chatted happily while sipping their warm beverages.

  Eventually Mr. Richards stifled a yawn, which earned him a disapproving glance from his wife. “My goodness, it has grown quite late,” he mumbled, not caring to hide his drowsiness or his interest in finishing the night.

  “Come now, my dear, our hosts are so kind to share their evening with us. Shouldn’t we make the most of it?” Mrs. Richards gently chided, barely caring to hide her annoyance at her husband and her interest in extending the night as long as possible.

  Henry glanced to Miss Richards and saw that the moment had not escaped her notice. Her jaw twitched and her normally pleasant smile now seemed strained.

  “Indeed it is quite late…” Henry agreed, unsure of how to go about ending these events. Though he had enjoyed having Miss Richards in his home more than he’d expected—the letter incident excluded—Henry found that his capacity to enjoy conversation or company had depleted significantly.

  “Oh Sissy, why don’t you play something for us before we leave? Just a short piece. I know how much Lord Overton and Lord Neil both admire your talent,” Miss Juliet suggested with a twinkle of excitement in her eyes.

  Miss Richards giggled shyly at the request, looking back to Henry for approval.

  “I would love to hear your play, only if you are willing,” he responded to her unspoken question.

  Her form relaxed and she smiled appreciatively, smoothing her skirts over the bench and trilling her fingers over the keys before gently placing them on the instrument.

  Everyone else found seats throughout the room as Miss Richards prepared herself. Henry didn’t want to take the chair closest to the pianoforte lest one of his guests desired it. But Mr. And Mrs. Richards found a pair of chairs in the far opposite corner of the room, and Solomon and Miss Juliet Richards both nodded for Henry to take the close chair while they situated themselves in the middle of the room.

  Henry swallowed and seated himself, adjusting the chair slightly so he could have a better view of Miss Richards’s face while she played. She smiled when she saw him settled in.

  The melody started light and fanciful and Henry struggled to place the name of the song.

  Whatever the piece was called, Henry enjoyed it immensely. Not just because Miss Richards played it, though her skill handled the piece well and she seemed to travel through its peaks and valleys with practiced dexterity. The song itself was simple, but its simplicity was its advantage. Every note and chord and phrase rang clearly, spilling into the next with gentle ease.

  When the last few notes lingered in the air as Miss Richards’s hands stilled, Henry finally found fault in it. It was far too short.

  “Sissy... That was beautiful. Wherever did you learn such a song? I don’t pretend to have great interest in learning music, but I may have to ask you to te
ach me this when we get home.” Miss Juliet sounded just as awestruck as Henry felt. Her eyes were wide and eyebrows raised, the expression stuck as she appeared to process the music.

  Miss Richards turned around on the bench and smiled at her sister, clearly pleased with a slight hint of a blush on her cheeks. “I’d be happy to teach you, but let me write out the sheet music first. This was just a small piece I figured out myself.”

  More than one gasp could be heard within the room, including one from Henry. “Miss Richards, you wrote that song yourself?”

  She glanced shyly down at her hands, as if she too were surprised that such a lovely creation came from her own fingertips.

  “That was beautiful. You should be immensely proud. And I hope you continue creating your own original pieces.” Henry, unused to expressing such sentiments, felt stiff as he offered his praise, but hoped Miss Richards would understand.

  Miss Richards met his eyes with a strange look that Henry couldn’t identify, but it sent a tremor down his spine. “Thank you, Lord Neil. I must admit you inspired me a good deal.”

  Henry found himself winded and almost lightheaded. Miss Richards’s song had been too short, because Henry wanted to hear it here in his home for hours upon hours, wanted to watch her sway gently on the bench and run her fingers over his books.

  He suddenly had a vision of himself in his study, sitting at his writing desk with pages sprawled out before him and his hands smudged with ink. And when he looked up in his imagination he saw Miss Richards nestled into a chair in the opposite corner, a book in her hands, and she too looked up at him with a soft smile before returning to her own devices.

  And when the Richards family left, with Solomon following shortly after, Henry felt the heavy air of emptiness that filled his home. No matter how hard he tried to return to normalcy, he saw imprints of Miss Richards everywhere he looked.

  Chapter 11

  Frye Publishing.

  The name and logo had become fixed in Cecilia’s mind. She hadn’t meant to read the baron’s private correspondence but she couldn’t help seeing it as it fell from the table. She hadn’t gleaned anything other than the name of the publishing company and its logo.

  She’d done her best to act ignorant and carry on the evening as usual. In fact, Cecilia wished she’d never seen it at all. Now she could not banish it from her mind. She knew there must be some explanation as to why Lord Neil would receive a letter from the same publisher who put out those anonymous adventure novels. Even still, that knowledge sparked an interest in her.

  She also could not ignore the sense that an immense but deeply buried shift had occurred between them during the last ball they’d attended together nearly a week ago. As she sat up in her bed, with one of those adventure tales in her lap yet again, Cecilia’s mind pulled away from the vivid fictional world and instead roamed back to those memories. They were even more vivid than the story, because she had lived them.

  From the way they seemed able to communicate without speaking, using only their eyes and subtle expressions to ask and answer each other, to the sublime dance, to the way he watched her while she performed and the total ease she felt while his eyes were on her—something had changed in the midst of all that. Certainly something had changed in Cecilia, and she felt that there was a good chance that the baron experienced it as well.

  The time she’d spent in his home today indicated as much, at least. His home had been beautiful, and Lord Overton had made a point to inform them that much of the decoration and furniture had been chosen by Lord Neil himself. The dinner itself had been mostly uneventful, but she couldn’t shake that current of air that seemed to connect them even though he sat at the head of the table. He hadn’t spoken much, but Cecilia did not think she flattered herself to claim that his eyes never strayed far from her.

  And of course, she adored Lord Neil’s library. She'd always thought her father kept a distinguished collection of books, but never had she seen such a vast library in anyone’s home. It shouldn’t have surprised her, considering all she’d heard of the baron’s hobby, but her breath had still been taken away the instant she stepped through the door.

  Cecilia could have spent many an hour simply allowing her eyes to slide up and down the hundreds of leather spines, some worn and cracked and some still pristine. Even if he hadn’t read each book himself, Lord Neil still knew enough of each one to tell her about its author or subject matter. But best of all was the pride in his eyes as he patiently answered her questions. She sensed that Lord Neil did not often have the opportunity to discuss his treasures with anyone, so their shine had dulled over the years as they became commonplace to him.

  She couldn’t help shivering slightly as her memory wandered back to their walk around the drawing room. Though her room was warm and a tepid cup of tea still gave off small trails of steam on her bedside table, Cecilia snuggled a little deeper into her blanket. She carefully marked her place in her book. It wasn’t likely that she would be able to concentrate on it any more tonight, not with the baron looming large in her mind.

  She had been surprised that he’d spoken about his late parents and to hear that she inspired him. She saw it as a sign that perhaps he viewed her as an intellectual equal.

  And because he’d shared such personal thoughts with her, Cecilia felt it only natural to return the favor in his drawing room by playing an original composition. She'd only been tinkering with it for a few days, and much of it sprouted up naturally as she played on the baron’s pianoforte. At one time, such a notion would have been appalling to her. But somehow her conversation with Lord Neil, and seeing him sitting nearby with an eager expression, gave her the courage to perform her first self-written song.

  Lying in bed now, Cecilia couldn’t believe that she’d done such a bold thing. She threw the covers over her head, a wave of heat washing over her. The courage she’d had at that moment had fled to the furthest corners of the Earth and she was now left with the inevitable embarrassment of how close she’d come to making a fool of herself if she had made a mistake or if her song hadn’t been well received.

  But the baron’s uplifting words in the drawing room echoed in her ears, and Cecilia vowed to sit at her pianoforte first thing in the morning to polish this song and then begin work on another.

  Cecilia’s bedroom door opened quietly, accompanied by a small gasp. “Miss Richards? Is everything alright? Are you hurt? Ill?” Violet rushed to Cecilia’s bedside, her shoes making small scuttling sounds over the wooden floor.

  Cecilia laughed and threw the covers off her head. “I’m quite alright, Violet. In fact, I’m doing just lovely. I was simply...reminiscing.”

  Violet smiled knowingly as she collected the tea tray. “You seem to have been in very good spirits these past several days.”

  A strange fluttering sensation started up in Cecilia’s stomach. It wasn’t uncomfortable or painful, more like receiving a tickle of whispered touches, barely there but just enough to set her skin tingling.

  “Yes indeed. I believe my luck in a certain department may be finally turning. I’m not entirely sure yet, but I can’t help hoping...” Cecilia’s voice trailed away wistfully as she rubbed her palm over the rough cover of the adventure novel.

  She had just been in his company a few hours ago, yet time stretched out endlessly. Cecilia wanted to know more of him, and of the place that was so precious to him that he rarely let anyone inside. She had felt so comfortable and welcome there.

  “I am very glad for you, Miss Richards. I do hope all your wishes will come true. You are most deserving of a life of happiness. Good night.”

  Violet spoke softly as she always did, but her eloquent words did not mask the hint of longing that lingered in her voice. She lowered her head respectfully as she took the tea tray away, closing the door behind her.

  “What a sweet girl. I swear she could compose quite fancy poetry.” Cecilia vowed that when her mind was not so occupied with other matters, she would find a way to
encourage her maid to take up writing when her time allowed.

  Cecilia wasn’t sure how long she laid awake in her dark room with only a sliver of moonlight teasing through the curtain for company. At least an hour, possibly two, if she had to guess. No matter how she turned and flipped, nothing was comfortable. But it wasn’t her bed or her pillows or her blanket or her nightgown that were the problem. Her body was perfectly snug. It was her mind that refused to be still.

  Snippets from the ball and the dinner—the baron’s eyes reading her unspoken thoughts, the way he felt so familiar when they danced and said words that she felt so sure belonged to her masked gentleman, the adoration in his voice as he spoke about his books, and of course the praises he had given her song—flashed through her mind's eye in rapid succession.

  As Cecilia’s mind flickered over these scenes, her heartbeat thumped irregularly. One moment it was calm and content as she recalled Lord Neil’s soothing presence by her side in the library, and the next it hammered away when she envisioned his awestruck expression after she played her piece.

  “Ugh!” She groaned, kicking her feet under her covers in agitation. She had been reduced to a child throwing a tantrum, unable to express herself due to sheer overwhelm.

  Cecilia wallowed for a few more moments before finally giving up. Lying in bed alone with her swirling thoughts was getting her nowhere. She ripped the blanket off her body and planted her feet on the cool floor, wondering what she could possibly do at such an hour.

  But before she could wonder too long, Cecilia’s body seemed to guide her across the room to her bedroom door. She opened it as quietly as she could and peered out into the hallway, glancing back and forth several times before embarking into the dark.

  Cecilia prided herself on her light feet, perfectly suited to dancing with ease and grace. But tonight, when she needed them to float as she did during a quadrille or cotillion, Cecilia’s feet felt sticky and cumbersome. Her breath stilled as she slowly picked her way down the hall in the dark, hoping that no servants were up and about so late at night.