Chapter 16
The fleeting pleasure he had gained from seeing the shock in Miss Hall’s eyes petered out quickly enough. After his mother had sprung the masquerade ball on him, nearly a week ago, a devious plan had begun to build in his mind. Could he get someone to masquerade as him while he went after the real prize he wanted—Miss Hall? It was a masquerade after all.
Early the next day, he had sent his driver to seek out a certain man and then, upon the receiving a positive reply, had ordered his tanner to make two sets of his huntsman costume which he was now about to collect.
Could it be done though? It was a daring move, and if it was discovered would be the meat filling the gossip gullets of everyone in the town. It might even reach London—the scintillating gossip of the nobleman that preferred the company of the help rather than the one of a lady.
His reputation would be ruined, Miss Hall’s life would be destroyed and Miss Fawcett would be cast as a scorned woman. But, did he dare? Yes, he did. He would suffer the lackluster punch and muted decorations over the splendid atmosphere of the real ball if it would give him a moment with her.
This one chance cannot pass me by, he had decided that very eve. Miss Hall, I cannot explain why I’m drawn to you, but I have to follow my heart.
What am I going to do? Rosaline despaired. A ball, I have no idea what I am going to do in a ball! I cannot dance. I would look foolish if I even tried.
Even though that was her main worry, her present one was to get the dress given to her by Mrs. Caddell altered. If she would not dance, at least she would look presentable.
She had once read about Nyx, the Greek Goddess of the Night, and imagined the deity as an ethereal one, so the black gauzy cloth she had taken from Mrs. Caddell was now cut in long strips. She would affix them at certain points on the dress to float by as she walked.
She had already fixed the scandalous dip in the back and was pinning the cloth in from the left shoulder of the dress to the back, hoping the flair would have the effect she wanted.
While stitching away, her mind shifted to a fantasy that would never be.
A gloved palm was stretched out, “May I have this dance?”
Blue eyes glimmered behind a dark mask and brown hair, now transformed into bronze by the golden light above. Her arm reached out and then she was in his arms. The room faded around her as she did not see anything but the blue of his eyes. She did not know how long they danced, five heartbeats or an eternity, she had no idea as she had the lost count of time.
The only thing she could discern was their smooth, flawless movements. There was no speech, and there was no music but they still danced. The look in his eyes told her all she needed to know—he was pleased—with her.
Suddenly, she was spun and whirled through an open door. The room was a blur of purple and white until it became a garden of roses. She was suddenly outside, under the mercy of the elements but none were so potent to her senses as the man who tenderly held her. The night air kissed her skin just as his hand cupped her cheek.
“Rosaline, may I kiss you?” he husked, “May I taste your lips, my darling?”
Clinging on his firm shoulders she marveled how she was his contrast, soft and fragile in some many ways to his solidity and strength.
“Yes,” whispered she.
Smiling his head lowered and his lips met hers.
Her eyes focused on the thin fabric between her trembling fingers. Slowly, she put down the needle and cloth and cupped the lower half of her face.
She wanted to kiss the Duke…the urge was undeniable… but was she insane? The man was about to be married for God’s sake! She was a servant, low-born, uneducated in many ways and uncultured in much more. The Duchess was right, she was a danger to the Duke. Taking up the garment, Rosaline went back to her sewing.
“The cape and vest are made of the finest leather, Your Grace,” the tanner, Mr. Douglas, said, “And the mask and gloves are of our best suede.”
Inspecting the garments and feeling the quality of both items, Norman smiled, “They are perfect, the two I ordered, please.”
Mr. Douglas’ bushy grey brows rose but he did not voice his query. “For sure, Your Grace. I am glad I was able to source the material this quickly. May I ask, why a huntsman? Isn’t a prince better suited for you?”
“You could say that,” Norman rejoined, “but these events allow us to become what we are not, Mr. Douglas. It is a night of make-believe and as such, I will become what I am not.”
Turning around, Norman took in the dusky wood of the tanner’s shop and the various items on the shelves. Boots of all sizes were displayed in abundance and so were gloves, both items were of leather but ranged from soft kidskin to the harder bull-hide. The rich, earthy, and slight heady scent of the treated skins was softly intoxicating and Norman liberally breathed it in.
“The package is ready, Your Grace,” Mr. Douglas informed him from behind.
Languidly turning, Norman took the bag, “Thank you, just send the bill to the bank and it will be taken care of. Good day, Mr. Douglas.”
“Same to you, Your Grace.”
Leaving the shop, Norman approached his carriage to see Mr. Taylor standing there with another man dressed plainly in warm browns.
He had seen Mr. Firth once, in the role of Othello, and had been greatly surprised. If Norman had not known he was born an only child, he would have guessed the actor could be his brother. Mr. Firth’s presence had a few features off, but with a mask and a cape, no one would be the wiser.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Taylor said, “This is Mark Firth, the man from the theater that you requested.”
Mr. Firth bowed, “Good day, Your Grace,”
Norman smiled, pleased that the second part of his plan was falling in place. “Good day to you too sir. Let us enter—business like this, cannot be done in the open. Mr. Taylor, the scenic route through the town, please.”
Handing the package to Mr. Taylor, Norman easily opened the carriage door and gestured for Mr. Firth to enter. Soon after, he joined him and took the package from the driver.
“Mr. Firth, I am told you are a quick study,” Norman said, “And I assume that being an actor you must be one.”
“I pride myself on being so, Your Grace,” the man, brown-hair and blue eyes like him nodded, “Your first correspondence only asked that I be ready when you needed me. What do you need of me, Your Grace?”
“I need you to be my look-alike for a masquerade ball this evening,” Norman said, “It may seem like a childish and juvenile act, one worthy of a schoolboy, but I aim to be at two places at once this evening and for that, I need a man to play me.”
Norman could see the plethora of questions in the other man’s gaze but he, wisely, held them in. “I understand, Your Grace, many a nobleman has used lookalikes to stand in for them. I do not see why your case is any different.”
It can be if I am found, and I fail in getting what I want.
“I assume there must be something you need from me, then,” Norman said, “What is it?”
Mr. Firth was silent for a moment and then recited, “I assume there must be something you need from me, then…what is it?”
Norman’s eyebrows shot to his hairline—he had just heard his voice coming from the other man. The cadence was a little off, but Norman doubted Miss Fawcett would hear it.
“My God,” Norman smirked, “I think there is little in that area to be done, just draw your vowels a little and you will be fine. Mr. Firth, I need you to occupy a lady named Miss Fawcett for a stint of perhaps thirty minutes. This will sound tasteless and sordid, and I expect to be painted as a scoundrel in your and many other’s eyes, but she is my betrothed. A wonderful girl but, sadly, she does not have the spirit that draws me.”
The only sensible conclusion to his statement was that there was someone else who did draw his attention.
“But someone else has,” Mr. Firth said without much intonation.
“Yes, and I believe
in the future that the records of my life, read by those with an astute moral compass, will paint me as a blackguard, a heartless monster with no qualms or conscience. Even as I have cursed myself thrice over, I cannot worry about that now. My own honor will censure me someday,” Norman added.
“‘To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man,’” quoted the actor. “Many will not understand but I do.”
Norman shook his head wryly, “I have made the right choice then. Now that we have an accord, please, name your price.”
While donning the soft suede mask Norman looked at himself through the eye holes, “‘To thine own self be true.’”
The huntsman costume was splendidly dark and slightly menacing. His shirt was a dusky grey topped with a laced tabard vest of the deepest black leather. Drawing the cape further to cover half of his chest, Norman forcefully did not allow himself to worry about the deception he was about to pull off.
His ear cocked to the side when the faint strains of classical music breached the thick oakwood that was his door. Taking a long look at himself he squared his jaw. “It is too late to renege now.”
Striding out of the dim room, Norman halted three steps down on grand staircase to observe. With lights that could rival a night at Vauxhall, the foyer below glittered splendidly. The crystal chandelier, adorned with hundreds of candles was a beacon of light. He scanned the throng below and watched men and women, all gloriously dressed, filter in and be announced by butler's droning voice.
Straightening his cloak, Norman descended and after a nod to the butler, followed the path to the ballroom and emerged to see a packed dance floor.
The glittering and glimmering chaos of brightly-colored costumes, infrequently broken up by scarce monotone dresses, briefly confused him. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to focus and the world righted itself.
With a keen eye, he spotted his mother, standing near the seats. Her dignified posture was highlighted by a black silk domino cloak worn over a French blue and white patterned dress.
Beside her was Lady Ogbent, in a dark Venetian ensemble, and of course, beside her was the belle of the ball, Miss Fawcett in a white, Grecian style gown. He caught the eye of Lady Ogbent while he was meandering his way through the sea of people between them.
“Your Grace,” Lady Ogbent greeted with a curtsy.
The Duchess gracefully turned to him, and her delicate eyebrows lifted a smidgen, “That is a rather…curious costume Norman.”
Bowing, he straightened and tugged his vest, “It is unexpected, I know, but I tire of finery.” Looking beyond his mother he inclined his head.
“Lady Ogbent, good evening and Miss Fawcett,” he paused to scrutinize the young lady’s gown. The airy white fabric glimmered with silver and she had a string of pearls laced through her golden hair. Her face was covered by a white Venetian mask with gold filigree at the edges. She looked as delicate as a cloud. “Is that an Athenian gown or is it an homage to the goddess Aphrodite?”
She colored softly, “I was told it was Hestia, Your Grace, the goddess of the family, home and hearth.”
I am sure my memory of the demure Greek goddess of the home did not wear gossamer gowns.
“Whichever one, you look lovely,” Norman added.
“Thank you.” She cast her eyes shyly downward.
At that moment, the orchestra issued a readying note for the first dance, and he offered his arm, “Miss Fawcett, I did not get to sign your card, but would you do me the honor of a dance?”
There was a short look between her and her mother and then she stood, “I would be delighted to, Your Grace.”
Before his mother could utter another word, Norman swept Lady Fawcett onto the dance floor. Other couples followed suit around them as the beginning notes of a waltz sounded.
Internally, Norman groaned. What happened to the normal first dance, the minuet? Forcing his expression into a more amiable one, he pulled Miss Fawcett closer by the waist and led her into the first steps. Being trained from very young in all the court dances, they moved in flawless unison.
The music rose to a crescendo, and he carefully whirled her with a casual speed. She executed another flawless spin, and he caught her with the correct poise. Norman internally frowned at how her hand would ‘accidentally’ slip down his arm in what he could only think of was a caress or how she wetted her lips and gave him a beguiling look. Did she think they were already married? Even so, it was very risqué.
Whatever you’re aiming for subtlety is not your forte, Miss Fawcett. A lesser man would succumb to your seduction but I am not one.
Through the corner of his eyes, he saw the couples, as they twirled to the music, saw the glisten and glimmer of the costumed patrons and fleetingly wondered if the servants’ ball was anything like this one.
The music dwindled and eventually died to soft applause. Stepping back, Norman bowed while she curtsied. He then took her arm and returned her to her mother.
“Thank you for the waltz, Your Grace,” Miss Fawcett smiled with a soft flush on her cheeks that showed just under the end of her mask.
“My pleasure, Miss Fawcett. Lady Ogbent, Mother,” he acknowledged before nodding to both women and walking away.
And the opening act is done, Norman mused, two and three must follow.
Another dance passed with him dancing the quadrille with Lady Buckley, a middle-aged Baroness before he went back to Miss Fawcett for the cotillion. As expected, she executed the elaborate footsteps perfectly and then returned her to Lady Ogbent with another bow.
The set had broken and it was time for his departure and Mr. Firth’s debut. “Excuse me, Mother,” he kissed her cheek. “I’ll only be a moment.”
He was about to walk away when he was interrupted by Evan, in an easily recognizable black and white domino costume. Instantly, he felt annoyed, but forced himself to be courteous, “Edgehill, wonderful to see you.”
“And wonderful for me to witness your formal engagement,” the lord quipped, “Be sure that I am going to witness you signing the register.”
Norman felt his precious time was slipping away and thought quickly of how to disengage from his friend. “If you will excuse me, Evan, the facilities are calling.”
“I’ll go with you,” Evan said lightly.
Damnation!
“My stomach is sour, Evan,” Norman lied, “Do you want to witness that?”
Lord Edgehill coughed, “I think not, but try and not let your intended suffer your absence for too long.”
Nodding, Norman strode off and slipped away into a lesser-used corridor where the actor, dressed in a copy of his costume, laid in wait inside an unused closet. He passed by and knocked on the door and was responded by swift raps. Firth knew he had to wait a while before ‘reappearing’.
Smiling, Norman fixed his mask and strode to his real destination—Miss Hall.
From her viewpoint at the back of the hall given to the servants for their ball, Rosaline watched as men and women, knowing with the customs of the upper class danced a song she now knew as the waltz.
In her simple blue dress, Rosaline stood quietly. Her hair was down in a style that certainly was not one for the culture of closely-cropped hair, but she had not thought of the Goddess of the Night with her hair in a chignon.
The ball had started not too long ago, but she already felt the odd one out. By observing the twirling dancers and opulent surroundings, she knew that she did not belong there. Light laughter and glee surrounded her but she did not feel the happiness at all.
“Why are you a wallflower, madam?” a husky voice said behind her ear.
Spinning in her place, Rosaline nearly collided with a firm and solid body. Staggering back, she saw a man dressed in a nondescript dark shirt and breeches with a simple mask like hers but with one glance to his eyes she knew who it was. Her blood flashed hot and cold at the same time.
“Your Grace,” she hissed under her bre
ath, “what on earth are you doing here?”
“I’m here to see you.” He said like it was the easiest thing to utter, which to her was not.
Rosaline felt like she was about to have an apoplexy. Was the Duke mad? Did he not understand that she was not to be mingled with, despite the Duchess’ recent recant of her order?
She backed up and sadly her retreat was stopped by a cold column. She wanted to believe her eyes were tricking her. He has come to see me…but why?
“You cannot be here.”
“I can, as it is my house,” he said glibly, “Didn’t we have had a similar conversation not too long ago?”
Her jaw clenched in agitation, “Well, you shouldn’t be here.”
The Sullen Seamstress of Horenwall Manor: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 15