A Lord of Many Masks (Wycliffe Family Book 2)

by Jessica Scarlett

  A trapezoid of light beamed into the foyer where Mama, Mrs. Burbank and Allerton were conversing in the parlor. From the corner of my eye Matthew descended the stairs and joined them, but I kept my gaze forward, transfixed.

  The lacquered grooves of the box shone under the dim light, like little golden stars. What did I expect? For William to change his mind? For him to barge through the door again against my wishes and offer himself? I didn’t know what I was waiting for, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to stop.

  Laughter sounded from the parlor, bringing me out of my stupor. John was waiting for me. I shouldn’t be here staring at a box full of silly dreams. I breathed. In. Out.

  Making my decision, I reverently lifted the box and crept back up to my room, careful not to draw the attention of anyone in the parlor. From the drawer in my vanity, I retrieved the key and every poem I’d ever received from William, tucked neatly in a bundle of ribbon. I would store them in the box. Perhaps I would stow the box under my bed, or toss it in the river, or the fireplace. It didn’t matter. After tonight, I would never look inside it again.

  But when I turned the key in the lock and lifted the lid, I was surprised to find it wasn’t empty. A small, folded piece of parchment sat inside, with no address.

  My brow wrinkled. William had written the last poem, which meant it was my turn and I was the one with the key. So how had this slip of paper wandered inside since the last time I locked it?

  My heart-rate spiked as I stared at the note, wondering when in the last week he had been here. The only explanation was that he had a spare—and had purposely neglected to slip the key under my door to let me know this poem was in here. For all he knew, I wouldn’t have ever looked inside the poetry box again.

  No. He had left it for me to find on my own. He wanted me to find it. And the very fact that I knew of the poem’s existence was proof that things really weren’t over between us. Shame washed over me.

  “Eliza,” called Mama’s voice, drifting up the stairway.

  Brought back to the present, I slammed the lid of the box shut and set it on my vanity. After all the heartache, I wasn’t going to fall for it, no matter how romantic the gesture. I would not read that poem. And just as soon as I returned from Almack’s in the early morning, regardless of how tired I was, I would watch it wither to ashes.

  The splendor of Almack’s was greater than anything I could have anticipated. John and I glided down a marble staircase that broadened at the bottom, spilling into a large ballroom. Along with the mugginess, rose and sage perfumes assaulted my nose. From the painted ceiling hung eight crystal chandeliers, illuminating a ring of dancers in the center of the floor, promenading in neat lines like a company of soldiers. Clusters of people skirted the edges near ornate mirrors, towering windows, and mint colored curtains.

  Mrs. Burbank, who had trailed behind emitted a low, “Oh my.” Apparently she wasn’t used to the grandeur either. Being the sister to a countess, one would think that she’d been to an Almack ball before. But a certain level of prestige and notoriety was required to obtain a voucher—and even then it was not always certain.

  The press of bodies was stifling. “I shall go search for seats,” John said before walking off through the crowd. Mrs. Burbank snapped her fan open and beat it frenziedly.

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “What a crush. I do wish I’d brought my smelling salts. One is liable to faint with all this humidity.”

  I nodded, but the motion slowed as my sight stuttered on a man with dark blond hair and dark eyebrows. Heart-rate spiking, I took in his styled hair, the deep green tailcoat that brought out his eyes. If I had known William would be here, I wouldn’t have come. I’d believed that after all that had happened, he’d stop entertaining society and fade into the background.

  I would need to keep track of his whereabouts for the sole purpose of avoiding him. Still, from across the room, I couldn’t tear my gaze away.

  He stared intently at something to my left. Even from a distance, I could tell he struggled to maintain his façade, and that he wasn’t quite succeeding. A pained look shrouded his gaze, something desperate and full of longing.

  I followed his line of sight, wondering what could capture his attention and so thoroughly undo him. A mirror.

  And I was pathetically ill-prepared to lock eyes with his reflection.

  My breath hitched, my heart lurched into my throat, and the thought pounded and pummeled itself through my mind: I shouldn’t have come. Oh, heaven help me, I shouldn’t have come. We were connected by the mirror, a private glance in a sea of people.

  He didn’t look away. It was as if he didn’t see anyone else.

  The sounds around me quieted. The ballroom slowed to a standstill and faded away as William continued to stare, never moving a fraction. Then, even as the world remained frozen, his lips parted and he mouthed one word.

  Eliza.

  I heard the whisper of it in my ear, tickling my hair, William’s deep voice hushed and airy and filled with desire. A muffled voice broke through my trance, growing louder and more distinct until the moment thawed, and I was back in the present.

  My vision filled up with John’s worried expression. He said something about how flushed I looked and needing to find me a seat. Soon I was sitting in a secluded corner with Mrs. Burbank fanning my face so vigorously my loose curls flew up in tufts with each beat of her wrist.

  “Miss Wycliffe, you do not look well.” Mrs. Burbank continued to wave her fan. “Oh dear me, I should have remembered my salts.”

  After several minutes passed and I could trust myself again, I looked back. William was gone. I scoured the room, glazing over the orchestra on the balcony and the shimmering dresses hopping to their tune. A violin played the lively intro to a new set, a rallying call for dancers to find their partners.

  “Perhaps some exercise would do me good,” I said, standing. A turn about the room or a breath of fresh air was sure to help settle my nerves. John interpreted something else.

  He extended his hand, saying, “Perhaps the next set, then?”

  I wanted to refuse. But my eyes travelled from his gloved hand to his hopeful eyes, reminiscent to the night we’d met when he’d asked me a similar question. At the memory, a small smile pulled at my lips, and I gave a little nod before letting him lead me onto the dance floor.

  Two even lines spanned the floor as the intro repeated. Then as one we stepped into the middle and clasped hands with our partners, spinning in a circle one way, then the other. Every few moments, my gaze left Allerton’s to quickly scan the room in search of William. The dance continued and we slowly made our way up the line of dancers.

  “I must leave on a business trip soon,” John said, hopping to one side, then hopping back.

  I barely heard him, more focused on skimming the faces around me. “When?”

  “In a fortnight—and I shall be gone several weeks.”

  My attention snapped to John. “So long?”

  “Unfortunately. My business cannot be cut short.” Hands extended, he spun me in a half-circle, giving me a different view of the room.

  There he was. In a corner, William conversed with Lady Iris—and for once they weren’t regarding each other with cool disdain. By the way they moved their mouths, I could tell they spoke in hushed tones. Something about the picture made my stomach turn over. I looked away.

  “Perhaps I am not as well as I thought,” I said.

  John pulled me out of the line of dancers when the steps allowed it. He guided me to my chair then his hand came to my cheek. “I think I should take you home.” He looked between my eyes, studying. “I shall send for the carriage at once.” I nodded. John again disappeared into the throng.

  What had I thought would happen by coming here? If I’d given tonight even a moment of thought, I would’ve realized William would be in attendance as well. But I had not allowed myself to think on it—or on him. Perhaps, subconsciously, I had wanted to test myself, my heart—to see
if it was ready to let him go.

  It wasn’t.

  William had said those six days of keeping away were agony, but he was not the only one who suffered.

  I missed him. Terribly. It felt as if a great hole had been blown through my chest, and as I lay bleeding on the floor, someone had set a bag of bricks on that hole. The weight stanched the blood, but it did not make it better. In fact, it arguably made it worse—for now I was being crushed under the weight of it all.

  So perhaps, even with all my denying, I had not thought on William’s presence here tonight because I’d simply wanted to drink in his face one last time.

  And perhaps . . . he came because he wanted to do the same.

  Foolish hope.

  Oh, why had I ever believed I could carry on as if nothing were amiss? The walls of the room closed in as the raucous sounds around me rose to a dissonant crescendo. Attempting to swallow past the impossibly large lump in my throat, I stood and headed toward an exit, ignoring Mrs. Burbank’s protestations.

  I needed some air.

  The dark corridor was deserted. Pale moonlight shone through the several tall windows that lined one wall. Alone at last, I exhaled and folded my arms.

  I loved solitude for the same reason I loathed it—it left me alone with my thoughts. The rumble of the ballroom was distant, but even had I been in the thick of it, it wouldn’t have compared to the noise of my mind.

  Life was not how I imagined it would be. Throughout my daydreams, I’d always realized they weren’t real; but somewhere in the back of my mind, a part of me had believed they’d come true, or at least some version of them. It couldn’t all be unrealistic nonsense.

  But this—this reality I lived—was not any version. Because in reality, I was engaged to someone I did not love. William was estranged. Mama was taking her last breaths. And I despised myself, believing I had singlehandedly brought it all to pass, and secretly believing I deserved it. None of that had been part of my dreams.

  My vision blurred with tears.

  Even tonight had ended so off the mark. Before, when I’d imagined my first ever night at Almack’s, I’d imagined a masquerade.

  Dressed in the deepest blue, like an arctic river at midnight, I wandered the card room in a peacock mask, taking in the hands of each player and predicting who would win at each table. My dress swished as I headed to the tea room.

  Behind me, a gentleman followed at a subtle distance. We’d not been introduced.

  Secured in a corner, I sipped the lemonade, glancing at the man. His mask was that of a fox. With slow steps he circled the room, never looking away from me. “Who is that gentleman?” I asked of a nearby matron.

  She followed my gaze. “Oh, he is a mystery, that one. And his is the best sort.” She moved on, not elaborating any further.

  I locked eyes with him again, just before a slow smirk spread across his lips. He had very nice lips. Fool! I thought. You don’t even know the man!

  But I didn’t need to. There was a connection between us, and it would be futile to resist its pull. And he did have very nice lips.

  We danced—only ours was not on the ballroom floor, but a dance of restrained glances and maintaining distance. I unfolded my fan to cover the bottom half of my face. The man was bold, I’d give him that.

  But I dared not approach him. It was too unorthodox, would elicit too many whispers. I shuffled to the ballroom, looking over my shoulder at the entrance to see if he followed. He’d disappeared.

  Gentleman after gentleman whirled me around the ballroom, none with the mask of a fox. Even in a different mask, something told me I’d recognize him. After the sixth set in a row, I escaped to an abandoned corridor for a reprieve.

  Only it wasn’t abandoned.

  He was there, waiting in the shadows.

  “I thought you’d never come.”

  My breath caught. “Were you expecting me, sir?”

  He didn’t answer, only stepped further into the light as he neared. The motion didn’t help illuminate his identity.

  “You could not have known I’d come. We’ve not even been introduced!”

  He came to a stop just before me, letting the quiet fall over us like a cloak. A gentle hand came up until his thumb brushed the corner of my mask. Another quirk of his mouth. Though there was no skin contact, I shuddered.

  “Take it off,” he said.

  I gasped. “What?”

  “What beauty do I behold without truly seeing? I wish to know. Take off the mask . . .”

  I catapulted back to reality—a place that was not so hopeful or romantic.

  I was tired of masks. Of seeing them, trying to tear them off, and of placing them over my face to hide a broken heart. They were not romantic; they were deceitful. This dark corridor at Almack’s was just as I’d imagined, and here I was in my dress made of midnight. But unlike my daydreams, there was no man with a mask waiting in the shadows to whisk me away.

  Movement from down the hall caught my eye, making me freeze. Even down a long, dim corridor I recognized his walk. Hands clasped behind his back, his gaze lingered on the lengthy rug that stretched the hallway. He hadn’t seen me yet. I could still flee. I could dart toward the ballroom and avoid the danger and heartbreak approaching me with slow steps. But I didn’t want to.

  Only when he was near enough for me to discern his furrowed brow did he look up.

  William halted. He blinked and dropped his hands, lips parting in surprise. Then we both stood stock still, locked in each other’s gaze, the tension in the air suffocating. Faint music from the ballroom drifted through the hall, encompassing us in a spell.

  Finally, William tore his gaze away. But he did not leave. Apparently, I was not the only one who wished to speak a final goodbye.

  “I am sorry for the way things must be,” I said at last. My voice sounded hollow, like it didn’t belong to me. “I didn’t intend for everything to play out this way.”

  “Believe me,” William murmured, looking everywhere but at me, “you are not as sorry as I.”

  Silence engulfed us. A question burned in my breast, hot and unbending, forcing me to speak before I’d analyzed the sense of it. “Why?”

  There were too many why’s to be more specific. Why was he sorrier than me? Why did he push me away, when all I’d ever offered was friendship and trust? Why did he keep his mask so tightly secured at all times? Why couldn’t he look at me with my hair unbound? . . . Why couldn’t he love me?

  “I was afraid, Eliza,” he said. “I still am. More so, now.” His jaw set after he said the words, and I knew they had cost him. He didn’t speak like this. Never said anything that made him appear weak. But somehow, he seemed stronger for it.

  “Of what?” I pressed.

  “Of you.” His breath hitched, then staggered out in an exhale. “I have always been afraid of you.”

  I blinked and my lips parted. Of all the things I had expected him to say, it wasn’t that. I shook my head, confused. “But why?”

  “You love life.” At last, he met my eyes again, and the intensity there made me take a step back. “You are wistful and hopeful. You play with your dress when you’re nervous, and your eyes sparkle when you laugh, and if it’s hard enough, there’s a little dimple that appears on your right cheek that drives me mad with thoughts of touching it. You’re stubborn, you daydream, you have silly notions about the world, you flirt horrendously—all attributes that on any other person would be faults.

  “And Eliza, I’ve always known I was not fit to be your companion, but in the end I couldn’t bear to leave you, because at every turn you kept surprising me. From the first day, you’ve been constantly showing me what I’m missing and giving me hope for a thing I could not have and no matter how hard I try, it—” He stopped, breathing hard for a few moments. “It scares me.”

  I felt my shoulders relax, my brows coming together.

  “I have been afraid of losing you for the past several years. Not because I thought I would
, but because I don’t know how to get on without you. You make me feel whole. Like I’m worth something. And I’ve dreaded needing you like this because surely it was only a matter of time before I ruined everything. That’s what I do. I ruin things.

  “I’d hoped our friendship to be above that—something I would have handled with care and cherished forever. So I don’t know what I was thinking, acting as I did. Nothing explains it, except perhaps that I . . .” His blinking stuttered as he struggled to say the words.

  I held completely still.

  He turned away and blew a deep sigh, raking a deliberate hand through his hair, head shaking as if deciding against the words. Turning back, he said, “I don’t suppose it’s any use asking you to call things off again?”

  I gulped and shook my head. There was a painful, stretched moment before I pushed energy into my feet, willing them to move me away from William. They betrayed me. They took me one step closer. Two.

  He watched me approach, eyes gleaming in distrust. Three. Distrust of me? Four. Or . . . himself?

  “If only you had given me time,” he whispered. “Things could have been so different.”

  That was just it though. Time was the one thing I did not have.

  His brows pulled together, and again I was reminded of someone lost. Like a boy walking London’s streets after dark, too afraid to leave the blurry light of a lamppost to find his way home.

  Moonlight cast sharp shadows against one half of his face. “I have relived that day every waking moment these past weeks—and every time, I do not hesitate.”

  I didn’t ask him which day. I didn’t have to.

  “Every time, I say something other than I did. I understand your reaction. I even understand now why you would sever our friendship.” He took a deep breath. “But I do not understand why you are doing this—why you would tell me you loved me and then throw yourself into another man’s arms.”

  My lower lip trembled, just once. “I cannot tell you why.”

  He shook his head and cast it down, as if to gather his thoughts. I had never seen him so completely misplaced. Laughter from the ballroom floated on the air, anchoring me to reality. When William finally looked up, his stare was resolute.