A Lord of Many Masks (Wycliffe Family Book 2)

by Jessica Scarlett

  William sat forward, an eagerness overtaking his features. “All right, now I want you to pay attention, because I have given a great deal of thought to this. I have broken it down into four categories. I shall demonstrate each of the four steps first, and then you will do it to me in turn, and, if I find you convincing enough, I will determine you a success.”

  “How benevolent of you,” I said dryly.

  He waggled a scolding finger at me. “Do not mock me. Especially when I am about to pay you compliments—for I am liable to say something horrendous.” He waved his hand in the air, as if just inventing one. “Comparing your hair to crickets, for example.”

  My mouth tightened as I fought back a smile.

  He cleared his throat. “Now, what would you do in a crowded ballroom if you glanced across the way and saw the man of your dreams in being? You haven’t been introduced—neither do you know any connections to remedy it. How on earth are you to catch his attention?”

  The man of my dreams . . . I’d once thought I wouldn’t need to catch his attention.

  The packed ballroom inhaled more occupants, driving more bodies in front of me to block my view. I reached onto my tiptoes, but it was no use. I couldn’t see anyone—and no one could see me in my little corner. My eyes grazed a mirror and immediately froze. Pinning me with his penetrating gaze, a man stared back through the reflection. Where he was, I could only guess, but we were connected by the mirror, a private glance in a sea of people.

  How longingly he looked at me. He was the only one who saw me, sequestered in my corner—truly saw me. And it was as if he didn’t see anyone else . . .

  I blinked the daydream away. In reality, I did need to catch the attention of the man of my dreams.

  I chewed the inside of my cheek, reclining back in my chair. William didn’t want me to answer. Not really. He wanted to prove to me how foolproof his plan was. Sure enough, without any prodding from me, he carried on.

  “You wait for him to make eye contact,” he announced.

  “What if he never looks my way?”

  “Trust me—if he is any kind of man, he will know where the pretty ones are.”

  I inhaled in surprise—but had the wherewithal to disguise it as an overdramatized gasp. “You think I’m pretty?”

  William knocked his head back with an amused arch to one of his brows. My eyes strayed to his exposed Adam’s apple, stirring under the skin of his throat.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Grating filled the air as William scooted his chair closer. “Now, after you’ve established eye contact, it’s important to know when to break it. But you must look back again. That’s the important thing.”

  I wiped my hands on my dress under the little iron-cast table. I didn’t like where this was going . . . Or perhaps I did, a little too much.

  Could I confess now, with yesterday’s argument so fresh in mind? Would it ruin the moment? Should I wait for a better one?

  “Since I know how hard it is for you to look anyone in the eye for long, you’re going to practice. One whole minute where you mustn’t look away. Here we go.”

  That was all the warning I received before his eyes locked on mine. His lashes were dark and thick. The light from the windows shone on his face, turning his eyes more of a mint color. A sea of balmy, green summer days . . .

  “This is silly,” I said, turning away.

  “Uh uh uh,” he reprimanded. “You must stay looking at me for one whole minute.”

  We had to start over two more times before I was successful. It was agony, letting his gaze tear into me—for I was sure he was illuminating every dark corner of my soul. Rendering me exposed. Helpless. Without a secret left beating in my heart.

  “There,” he said finally. “Now, do you see how you are to hold your gaze?”

  I nodded, slowly.

  “Good. Now, the key to flirtatious eye contact is the smile. That is the second step. Too big, and you are too exuberant, too small, and you are too cautious. It must be equal parts mysterious and allusive. Like this.”

  Slowly, his mouth curved up. A hot blush rose to my cheeks, and I might’ve imagined how William’s smirk deepened when he saw it. He leaned forward. “I see my tactics are working. It’s a foolproof method, if you ask me.”

  I didn’t say anything—I couldn’t. How I wish this look of his wasn’t uncaging a whole zoo inside me. Even when I knew it was all pretend—knew he was only toying with me—I couldn’t help but react to him this way. Couldn’t help but hope like the foolish girl I was that it was real.

  “Now, do you see how you are to smile?”

  “Yes,” I said, hating how breathy I sounded.

  “Good. There are two more steps, but I have found them to be more effective when they are grouped together.” He was close, and even with the hot piping in the room and the warmth in my face, I could’ve sworn I felt his body heat radiating off of him. His vanilla scent mixed with the citrusy air of the conservatory. “Step three is to pay the person a compliment, and step four is to establish physical contact while you are doing it.”

  I gulped and looked away, too nervous to stare into his eyes a moment longer. Once I made my confession, there was no going back. And it was almost here; I could taste it on my tongue, hear it in the air. It bounced around the walls of my mouth and begged to be set free.

  “It cannot be anything improper, mind you,” he went on. “There are countless societal restrictions, but if you are creative, there are a number of ways you can accomplish it. The touch of your hands, the brush of a shoulder or a cheek. As for the compliment, it can be anything you like. The longer and more detailed the compliment, the better, but the important thing is to make it sound sincere.”

  Make it sound sincere. Whether it was or not didn’t matter. I shushed my heart as it tried to bound out of my chest, reminding myself that whatever he was about to say, he didn’t mean.

  “For example . . .” When I still didn’t look at him, the side of his finger slid up the base of my neck until it rested under my chin, and prodded my head up. I couldn’t breathe, my pulse hammering in my throat. Resisting the urge to shiver, I surrendered and met his stare.

  “Your eyes, Miss Wycliffe.” The moment swallowed me whole, whispering of the honesty I craved from him. “Some might say they are the color of melting snow, or a winter sky—but I find I disagree. They are rooted in a deep wonder and a thirst for life that is unmatched by anyone I’ve ever known. They are the color of heaven. And when I look into them . . . it makes me want to strive to be good enough to go there, so I may look into them again.”

  Oh.

  He was much too good at this.

  Now, Eliza. Make your confession now. The silence pounded in my ears, anticipation tingling in every part of my body.

  There was a little twitching of his eyebrows as they pulled together, before he let go of my chin and backed away. “Like that,” William said, smiling in a way that was slightly . . . disturbed? “That is how you flirt.” He cleared his throat and straightened his cravat, though it was still perfectly in place. “Now it is your turn.”

  “Right. My turn.”

  “Remember: make eye contact, smile, compliment, establish physical contact.”

  As if I could forget. But I nodded and set to work like a faithful student. I held eye contact for what felt like an eternity, feeling like a dolt.

  “I can’t do it,” I said, looking away again.

  “No, you were doing so well! Come. Do not feel so ill at ease. ” His hand turned my face back. “It is only me,” he said earnestly. “Look right at me.”

  I concentrated on William—only William. I thought of his protectiveness, his subtle kindness, and his silly poems he wrote for the sole purpose of making me laugh.

  And I smiled.

  By the soft pull of my lips, I knew it wasn’t a flirtatious smile. It was gentle and warm, everything I loved about William showing in my eyes. And, to my surprise, his face mirrored mine, something tender passi
ng between us.

  Now for steps three and four.

  I scooted to the edge of my seat, diminishing the gap further. Uncertainly, I brushed some hair from his forehead then cupped his jaw. He froze.

  Only then did I realize I never touched him like this. William had been this intimate with me on a number of occasions—it was in his nature to fiddle with my hair or grasp my shoulder or brush a hand against my cheek. Often, the actions were mindless, needing to touch me in some way even when he did not realize it.

  He often touched me—but I never touched him. And I could tell by the look in his eye that, despite the fact that he wore his mask, despite the fact that it was pretend, it had an effect on him. And it was no small amount, either.

  I saw him swallow and his nostrils flare, but other than that, he was still. Moving my hand back, I cradled his ear and swept a thumb over his eyebrow. His lips parted. Under my palm his skin was feverish, and I could feel his erratic pulse rushing under the surface.

  Or was that mine?

  My other hand found his, resting on his knee, and drew it into my lap. “Your hands,” I whispered. “They are hard and worn, but how often they have held me and brushed away my tears. They are just like you—on the outside, they appear perfect and beautiful, but they are not without their stories and scars. They have seen hardship and hurt beyond my imagination. And yet, their touch is the softest thing I’ve ever known.”

  William held perfectly still even as his eyes roved my face. They were clearing away the clouds that shrouded them, revealing themselves, piece by piece. He leaned forward—so slightly I felt it, more than saw. In my grip his hand stirred, causing mine to shudder. His eyebrows moved together in a question.

  It was here. This was the moment.

  “William, I . . .”

  “Eliza,” Matthew called from the doorway, and I dropped my hand as we both spun in surprise. William’s hand wiggled out of my grasp like we had been caught doing something wrong.

  Matthew’s expression showed more irritation than usual, but whether it was from the scene he was witnessing or from what he said next, I’d never know. “You have a visitor, and like a lapdog I have been sent to fetch you. Honestly, why do we even keep a footman?”

  William stood. “I should be going. I promised to make an appearance at Miss Nagel’s soiree this evening. You really are getting better, Eliza.” He laughed, pushing a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “Why for a moment there, I almost believed you. Keep practicing. I shall come again tomorrow.” Then William left, Matthew eyeing him with disgust as he passed.

  Oh, why hadn’t I had the courage to say it? Now the moment had passed and who knew when the opportunity would present itself again?

  I was pulled out of my thoughts by Matthew’s annoyed stare. “What?”

  “You. Visitor. In the drawing room.”

  “Oh,” I said, remembering why Matthew had appeared in the first place. “Who is it?”

  “Like I should know. Some self-important gentleman who spends too much time in front of a mirror. But they’re all like that, so how am I to tell one from the other?”

  I sighed. Matthew was never any help. I left the conservatory and headed down the hall. Twisting into the drawing room, I beheld the back of a man’s head. He stood—dark hair, broad shoulders, well-tailored clothes. When he turned around, I halted.

  The Duke of Allerton held his topper in his hands, wearing an expression that was part anxious, part determined.

  Footsteps sounded behind me. I looked back in time to see Matthew grab the doorknob, shoot me a meaningful look, and shut me in, the latch’s click signaling something momentous.

  “Miss Wycliffe.”

  I spun back, stomach flipping. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Please,” he said, dropping his hat on the chair and coming to the other side. “I wish you would call me John.”

  I bit my lip. “. . . Then I will, sir, though it makes me uncomfortable.”

  “Are we not well enough acquainted to be beyond that? Perhaps we are not, but I . . . I feel as if I know you quite well.”

  Only with considerable effort did I manage to prevent myself from gaping at him. He took a step forward. It was such a small movement, but I felt the inches he took away.

  “It is unfair of me to put you in such a position—for you know I am aware of your affections toward Bentley.

  “But . . . I can prevent myself no longer. You must know how I adore you. You must know I am drawn by your brightness, and your beauty, and have been most unsuccessful in putting you from my mind.”

  My heart thundered. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t happening. Still, he came closer—so close that I was able to feel his breath on my cheek and drown in his melting eyes and realize that this was definitely not a dream.

  “You are all I have ever wanted,” he whispered, eyes brimming with . . . “I suppose I should just say it, then.” He took a big breath. Then his gaze honed in on mine, determined and firm.

  “Miss Wycliffe. Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Chapter 14

  I froze—not just my feet, expression, and posture—but my insides, my mouth, my heart. Gaze wide and unfocused, I tried to make sense of what was happening. The duke must be confused—or addled. He had accidentally proposed to the wrong woman.

  “W-What?” I managed at last.

  “As I said, I know your feelings for Bentley—but from all I see, he remains unaffected. It pains me to see you ignored in such a way, and I have come to offer myself.”

  “But I do not love you, sir.”

  “I know that.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “However I am convinced that given time, you could. Were it not for the intensity of my passion, I would have remained silent and waited for you to realize it on your own. Yet I cannot restrain myself. So I stand before you, completely helpless in the knowledge that you will refuse me anyway.”

  My gut twisted, taking in the grim line of his lips, the bleakness in his eyes. I inhaled, and I was sure my lungs shrunk, squeezing the air back out.

  In this moment, one word from me had the power to dash this man’s hopes and desires. No, not just his—Mama’s as well. One word, and an entire future would come crumbling down and beaten into dust.

  Let William go. Walk your own path.

  What was my path?

  Allerton’s face was growing more desperate by the second, and I knew I had to give him an answer. My mind screamed at me to say yes, to find security in a husband who could give me my fortune and give Mama peace. Yet, my heart clung to William with viciousness, guarding him and refusing to let go.

  “Your Grace—”

  “John.”

  I rolled my lips together, exhaling a shaky breath. “John. Your proposal has taken me off guard, and I fear I am not in a state of mind to give you an answer. You have undone me, sir, and I . . .”

  Instant relief showed on his face. “But of course.” He stepped forward, and I nearly stumbled back. He gathered my hands in his and gave them a squeeze. Only minutes before, William had held my hands in the exact same way. I didn’t know at all how to feel.

  “Take all the time you need.” After letting go, he retrieved his hat and gloves from the chair. He strode to the exit and stopped, turning back. “I look forward to your answer.” Then he was gone, leaving me with breaths that would not deepen and nerves that would not calm.

  I sunk into the sofa. I still had to give him an answer—and soon. To delay would be atrocious manners, and yet I hadn’t a clue as to what I would say. What was I to do?

  Oh, what was I to do?

  “Well,” Matthew said as he appeared around the corner and leaned against the doorframe, “I applaud you for not accepting the man.”

  “What on earth?” My hands dropped out of my lap. “Have you been eavesdropping?”

  Matthew scoffed, folding his arms. “As if you believe me capable of stooping to such levels. Please. The man was emanating a helpless w
orship for you. You could smell it on him. A proposal was imminent.”

  I eyed Matthew. “And why do you applaud me?”

  “Because,” he said, moving further into the room, “he also exuded arrogance in a way that was presumptuous. As if he were certain you would accept him.”

  “What nonsense.” And nonsense it was, for I had witnessed his uncertainty in the way he had played with his hands, and how he couldn’t look me in the eye for long.

  Matthew shrugged. “Continue to be dense, for all I care. It was a simple observation.”

  Matthew was always quick to think ill of someone, especially where it concerned me—though he would never admit it. I studied him. “And how did you know I would refuse?”

  “Because you love William.”

  By all England. Was I so transparent?

  Just then, Mama’s hopeful face peeked inside the room. The expression looked good on her; it brought a bit of color to her pale skin, which had turned an unnatural white the past few days. Her eyes had sunk lower into their sockets, but that did not stop them from dancing.

  “Well?” she asked.

  Oh, Mama. She must’ve been told of the Duke of Allerton’s arrival, and had assumed the rest. How was I to tell her what I had said? Would she be angry? Disappointed? . . . Should I have accepted him?

  “Matthew,” she said, striding in and sitting on the other end of the sofa, “you will leave me alone with your sister.”

  Matthew’s forehead knotted in a look that was both unsurprised and concerned. Still, he unfolded his arms and left, closing the door for the second time. I swallowed, looking back to Mama and wishing I could give her the good news she was expecting.

  “Well, my dear?” she asked again, face brimming with excitement. “The duke was here. What did he say to you?”

  Ashamed, I stood, walking away so I didn’t have to look at her. I couldn’t bear to when I had so totally let her down. “He . . . paid me compliments.”

  “And was that all?”

  I inhaled a breath so big I feared my insides would burst. “No, he—he proposed as well.”