In the silence that stretched, she could feel the earl’s gaze sweep over her. The sensation quickened her pulse.
Pushing himself away from the mantel, her host strode across the room, stopping mere feet away, and turned to catch the firelight on his features.
“Be careful what you wish for on All Hallows’ Eve.”
Tentative, nervous, excited, she approached to better look at him, a smile on her lips.
One blue eye and one brown watched her with intensity. A long streak of white laced the raven hair from temple to tip. Starting at the temple and stretching down to a clenched jaw was colorless linen-white skin.
And so, this was the devil’s mark. Her smile broadened. He looked to her to be kissed by an angel.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Now that you’ve seen behind the curtain, shall I arrange for a carriage?”
She reached a hand to touch his forearm, the skin hot through his shirtsleeve.
When he flinched at the touch, she said, “On the contrary. I’ll sleep soundly this evening, if not smugly. You see, Lord Tepes, I don’t believe in ghosts. I do, however, believe you owe me breakfast.”
His expression relaxed into the semblance of a grin. “If I don’t frighten you, then what of my staff?”
“People who have met with unfortunate circumstances. Certainly not goblins or ghouls.” Taking a step closer, she reached a hand to the discolored cheek. “What I don’t understand is the contest.”
He stood still, allowing her to touch his face and hair, seemingly unaware of how erotic she found the fingertip exploration.
“I protect the unwanted and deformed as I protect myself. The contest perpetuates rumors and discourages callers. However much I might have hoped someone like you would last the night, I never expected it. For too long, I’ve been ridiculed and afraid, just as my staff. Now, we can do the laughing and cause the fear.”
“You could make friends, you know, rather than hiding.”
“You who are so perfect know nothing of society’s cruelty. I’ve tried making friends. At one time, I thought my inheritance would be freeing. I was ready to start a new life as a peer, not an oddity. They took one look at me and turned away in horror. Perhaps with a countess—”
Standing on her tiptoes, Rosalind kissed the pale skin, her lips brushing his hot flesh.
In a breathless movement, she was pinned against the door, his lips pressed to hers, a kiss more passionate than she dreamt possible. Her arms wrapped around his neck, his hands exploring her waist through the dressing robe.
Lost in the kiss, she nearly missed the whimpering of the bloodhound. Reluctantly, their lips parted. Turning in unison, they spotted the pup staring at a far wall.
“One of your footmen must be carrying biscuits,” she said with a laugh.
Brows furrowed, he said, “There’s not a servant’s hall behind that wall.”
The dog ran in a circle and howled as an apparition floated through the wall, across the room, and into the adjacent wall, humming to herself.
Lord Tepes tightened his hold on Rosalind, as though expecting her to flee after all.
“I’m sure there’s a logical explanation,” she said, tilting her face in invitation.
He chuckled, his lips returning to their rightful place against hers.
Masquerade
Mist enshrouded the castle, a sea fret of cold gloom. Lady Evelyn tugged at the edges of her threadbare traveling cloak, chilled by more than the November air.
She had come to win the heart of the reclusive Viscount Marr. Her competition lined the drive. Ladies of various ages and statuses stepped out of carriages and entered the mouth of stone and iron.
Shivering, she accepted the footman’s hand and exited her own carriage, her aunt in tow. It was her aunt’s influence that had gifted Evelyn this chance. While no one wanted a destitute bride, Aunt Augusta held enough persuasion to ensure her niece at least received an invitation.
Together they followed the other guests to the drawing room.
Not long after, a tall gentleman in a nondescript graphite ensemble, spectacles perched on his nose and raven hair closely clipped, stepped into the room, signaling for silence.
“Welcome, venerable guests,” he said, his voice a velvet tenor. “I am your host, Mr. Brice, solicitor. Your safe arrival on this auspicious evening bodes well for our plans to find Viscount Marr a bride.”
Murmurs hummed.
“No need to swoon, ladies, for there is no secret as to why you’ve been invited. His lordship will choose his bride from among you. On the eve of the masquerade, seven days hence, she shall be named. A plethora of entertainment awaits your pleasure, beginning with a musicale this evening, a picnic on the morrow, fireworks at dusk, and more. Please, drink.”
The partygoers tittered as footmen circled with trays of claret.
Women in jewels and revealing bodices decorated the room, their chaperones hovering. Each measured the other, sizing up their opponents. An equal number of gentlemen attended, their eyes feasting on the available flesh.
Staring into her untasted wine, Evelyn frowned. Even with the persistent presses of Aunt Augusta, she could not entice herself to court a stranger, and certainly not one she had yet to meet. Viscount Marr had not left his castle for two decades. He was rumored to be near death and in desperate need of an heir. His wealth knew no bounds.
She looked back to the solicitor, in a corner away from the guests. His long fingers tapped his wine glass, his gaze studying each person, astute.
He cut a fine figure, though it was the intelligence behind the spectacles she found enchanting. If her aunt were not present, Evelyn would have sought his company. Ah, but he would not welcome hers. A man of no name or fortune would have little to gain from a woman who had name but no fortune.
Mr. Brice turned, his eyes meeting hers. Breath hitched, she smiled. He tilted his head, as though confused by her attention. Only when he returned her smile did she exhale.
The day after, a chill Wednesday with a leaden sky, the guests gathered on the lawn for bowls and gossip. Evelyn slipped away. The evening before had been tedious enough, wasted in the company of panting gentlemen and women whose words dripped with venom in their pursuit to poison the opposition. All for naught since the viscount was not among their numbers. In fact, no one had seen him.
A folly overlooked the lawn, a temple of ruined stone and climbing vines. It afforded Evelyn the perfect view to watch the play of avarice. Folding her hands in her lap, she enjoyed from afar the theatrics of fluttering fans. If only she had brought paints and canvas.
“Striking vista, no?”
Mr. Brice leaned against the stone.
She stood, acknowledging his reverent bow.
With an adjustment to his spectacles, he approached. “The entertainment isn’t to your liking?”
“The company, more like. Oh, how discourteous of me to say.” She stuttered a laugh. The way he looked at her made her stomach flutter and her skin flush in sinful ways. “I’ve no wish to gossip or flirt. I’d much rather paint, actually. And you? As master of ceremonies, should you not be mingling, taking notes for the viscount?”
Mr. Brice’s lips curved at the corners.
With a low chuckle that tingled her toes, he asked rhetorically, “You think me a spy for his lordship?” He winked, bringing her attention to eyes of golden hazel. “I’ve taken enough notes for one morning. Besides, no one wants the company of a humble solicitor.”
She waved her hand to the bench. “Join me?”
His expression curious, he sat. She settled beside him, increasingly aware of his proximity, his leg inches from her own, his body warming hers without touching.
Time warped, in one moment concave, in the next convex. For how long they spoke, Evelyn could not say, but she knew she wanted to see Mr. Brice again. How inconvenient to fa
ll for a solicitor of little means. Despite the age and mystery of the viscount, Lord Marr was the better catch to ensure her family did not face ruin and starvation.
When a rainy day later in the week trapped the guests indoors, the two met again. As the others speculated about the viscount’s condition, some believing him infirm, others deformed, Evelyn slipped into the library with Mr. Brice.
After an exchange on the inspiring views of the north tower, Evelyn asked, “Have you been Lord Marr’s solicitor for long?”
His smile slipped. “Since June.”
“Do you enjoy the work?”
“It’s… different. I’ve been a solicitor for ten years and love what I do, but it will take time to accustom myself to these surroundings.” Crossing one lithe leg over the other, he steepled his fingers. “The presence of a Lady Marr will help.”
Evelyn tucked a curl behind her ear, both thrilled and anxious at being alone with him.
“Why is he choosing a stranger as a bride? Does he not care whom he marries?” If only she could ask instead if Mr. Brice was looking for a bride and how he might feel about a dowry-less woman.
“Don’t believe the rumors of him being a hermitic goblin. He’s merely a busy man with few social interests. I’m conducting the initial reconnaissance, for he does not want a shallow or greedy wife. And yet, how does one disguise boundless wealth?”
“Yes, I see your point. It’s a pity he doesn’t join the party, though. The few older gentlemen in attendance are receiving all the attention.” She laughed when he stared blankly back at her. “You see, the ladies believe any of the elderly men could be the viscount in disguise.”
Mr. Brice’s shoulders shook with laughter. “As if he were a grand prize. Age? Pox scars? Hunched back? Nothing dissuades a woman from a wealthy match. And yet, here you sit in the library with a solicitor. You’re a curiosity, Lady Evelyn.”
Blushing, she stared down at her folded hands. “My family put me up to accepting the invitation. They’re desperate for me to make a good match, a wealthy match, as you aptly said. We’ve no money, you see. At least not much, not enough to sustain us for another year. And so, here I am. But I’ve not the heart for it, not when my interest is otherwise engaged.”
With a long look to Mr. Brice, she gifted a tentative smile.
He returned it.
Two more days of secret meetings passed. Evelyn avoided the crowd following an aged guest, a man who hobbled on a cane and scowled, insisting he was not a viscount. The ladies were undeterred.
The day before the masquerade, she met her suitor in the north tower. Though he brought a canvas and paints, not a single stroke met the untouched surface.
Instead, Evelyn found herself backed against the stone wall, her fingers grasping Mr. Brice’s hair as he molded his form to hers and sought her lips. His mouth slanted over hers in a warm embrace, his tongue teasing her lips open.
However difficult it would be to face her family, she could not marry for wealth. This was what she wanted. This feeling. This man.
The morning of the masquerade, he caught her before descending the stairs and pulled her into an empty parlor. Hugging her to him, his lips pressed to her temple, he asked what she would do if Viscount Marr chose her as his bride.
“Don’t be silly, Stephen. He has no reason to choose me. I’ve avoided everyone and all entertainments.”
“All the more reason to choose you. You’re not swayed by greed or society. What will you do if he names you?” he persisted.
She pulled off his spectacles and looked into the depths of his eyes. “He won’t choose me.” As he made to speak again, she said, “If he does, I’ll simply say no.”
“In front of all invited, in front of your aunt, to the despair of your family, you would turn down a fortune and a title?” His brows furrowed, his tone incredulous. “For…for me? A no-name solicitor?”
“You’re not a no-name solicitor. You’re Stephen Brice, and I love you.”
The evening of the masquerade brought all manner of fancy dress. Fey, vegetables, literary characters, and jesters mingled. Evelyn searched for the only person she wished to see. Her eyes fell on a figure in a domino, stooped, cane in hand. Stephen’s worried questions echoed as the cloaked figure in black watched her, stalking her through the ballroom, never letting her out of his sight, his mask concealing his identity.
Anxiety churned her stomach. What if Stephen already knew what was to happen? What if the viscount chose her? It was one thing to tell herself she would refuse him, but it was quite another to do it.
Had she the courage to say no to a viscount? Much less in front of all these people. Her aunt’s face could be her undoing, for in that face would be both disappointment and fear. Evelyn’s entire family depended on her making the right choice.
Guests swirled on the dance floor, bold in their movements with their faces disguised. Not once did she see Stephen. The viscount, however, hovered on the fringes, watching. Whispers rose in crescendo as all realized he was in attendance.
Evelyn’s pulse raced as the longcase clock struck midnight. The orchestra stilled. The tapping of a cane echoed. All eyes turned to watch the domino ascend the steps at the end of the ballroom.
In a creaking voice, the figure said, “It is time to choose my bride. May you all rejoice with me.”
She was bumped and jostled as the crowd gathered before him. Aunt Augusta pushed to reach her niece, grabbing Evelyn’s arm and patting her hand. In this moment, all their financial problems could be resolved.
This was the moment, her aunt repeated. This was the moment.
Evelyn’s eyes fixed on the viscount. Her heart pounded. Her palms perspired in her worn gloves.
“Allow me to introduce the bride of my choice,” his lordship said, deep voice crackling. “Would Lady Evelyn Woodward join me?”
Evelyn remained rooted. Gasps and mutterings enveloped her. Aunt Augusta squeezed her hand and pushed her forward, tears at the corners of her eyes. Before Evelyn knew what was happening, she was being propelled towards the viscount. A wave undulated through the crowd, thrusting her onward.
No, no, no. Why were her feet still moving? Why was she approaching him? No!
Her heart and her mind battled as her legs betrayed her. A glance behind her caught Aunt Augusta’s hopeful expression. Her family depended on her. This was their chance.
She looked up at the cloaked man. A gloved hand reached out. Pausing before the steps, Evelyn stared at the hand, her own trembling and hesitant. What of Stephen? What of love?
But what of her family?
Her betrayal lanced through her.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she slipped her hand into the viscount’s.
The grip was firmer than she expected as it tugged her up the stairs. She looked to the mask staring sightlessly at her.
“No,” she whispered.
His head tilted to one side. “No?”
Afraid of her own words and the fate she was forging, she said with a tremor, “I will not marry you, your lordship.”
“Is it my age?” he asked.
As silence stretched, she prayed Stephen’s affection was sincere. “I’m in love with your solicitor.”
While the crowd strained to hear the exchange, the viscount chuckled.
Straightening, he rose before her into a towering man. Releasing her hand, he removed his tricorn and mask and tossed them aside.
She gasped, the sound rippling through the crowd. Stephen stood before her, smiling, a cane in one hand, his other outstretched to take hers once more.
He bowed over her knuckles and said loud enough for all to hear, “Allow me to introduce myself. Stephen Brice, Viscount Marr.”
“But…but…” Evelyn stuttered.
The room was abuzz.
“I apologize for my betrayal. I had to be sure yo
u wanted me. I am a solicitor, you should know. I inherited this summer upon the death of my great uncle.” Stephen winked. “Will you still marry me?”
With a jubilant cry, she threw her arms around his neck. For all the guests to see, Lady Evelyn kissed her true love.
Homecoming
They had met on a day such as this.
Frost whitened the ground. The leaden sky promised snow. Mistletoe hung from doorways. The family gathered around the hearth, singing merriment, until their noses teased them into the dining room with the scents of pudding, goose, and wassail.
Ten years ago, their eyes met across the dining table. They knew with the first heart flutter it was meant to be.
She sat today at the same dining table, heart fluttering again, but at the sight of the empty chair, the backs of her eyes and throat burning.
Look to the man on your left, her mother had advised before dinner. A wealthy man, recently widowed, looking for a new bride.
She looked nowhere except the empty seat. Memories flooded her mind, drowning her eyes. Their first kiss, under the mistletoe, with slightly parted lips. Their first night of passion after the wedding one month later. Their first child, a wrinkly boy who smelled of promise and had his father’s jewel-green eyes. Their last night before the war, cradled naked in tight arms.
The letter. Eyelids squeezed against the final memory. She would not think of it.
How could she look to another when her heart remained lost on the battlefield? His headstone marked an empty grave.
“Pardon me,” said the man to her left. “I believe we met in London many years ago. You were friends with my wife.”
Blinking grief aside, she looked. Eyes of sapphire looked back, astute, intelligent.
“Yes,” she responded. “She was the most compassionate woman of my acquaintance.”
“Then we have something in common. Would you sit with me in the drawing room after dinner?”
No.
“Yes,” she said. “That would be lovely.”
Her eyes resumed their study of the empty chair.
A Dash of Romance (Romantic Encounters: An Anthology Book 1) Page 22