Love, Unmasked

by Vivian Roycroft

  She swallowed. “Well…”

  “Say you will. For me.” Grey paused. His gaze lingered on hers and deepened, then he cleared his throat. “As a friend.”

  Her breath hitched and the sun’s gentle warmth broke over her, raising a sudden glow. Surprising, how much the moment shook her. Good thing he added that caveat. For a moment there it almost sounded as if… “For such a friend, how could I refuse?” She cleared her throat in turn; she’d have to rest her voice for the evening or that dratted quaver would give her away. “But Grey, this must be the last.”

  “Well, you won’t blame me for trying to convince you otherwise, at least?”

  On his last word, the stallion plunged again, flattening his ears and slewing sideways into the track’s center. Grey closed his hands, sat deeper in the saddle, and held the brute in his dancing tracks.

  Suddenly the conversation felt too heavy to bear. “Why don’t you gallop poor Cassius and get that energy out of his system?” Fidelity blurted out. Exactly what she needed — the quickest, least painful method of getting rid of Grey while she considered her plan further. It felt foolproof and likely was, but a single mistake on her part would make her situation infinitely worse. Just the thought twisted her insides more tightly.

  Thankfully his grin flashed, not further hurt feelings. “For such a friend, how could I refuse?” Grey took his life in his hands, swapping all four reins into one fist and tipping his beaver to her. “Until tonight, Fi.” He paused, his fingers unerringly sorting out the handful of leather. “Bet I’ll know you, no matter what you wear.”

  Before she could respond — Bet you won’t! — he loosened the reins and leaned forward with a click of his tongue. Cassius half-reared and bolted away, hooves digging into the track and slewing dirt in a broad fan. A pack of horses on the far rail shied into a tangle, the laughing dandies astride them shouting and whooping encouragement. Thankfully, Palfrey only lifted her head and plodded on, ears pricked.

  More surprising was the flicker of unhappiness Fidelity felt as Cassius disappeared in the Rotten Row crowd. Why does everyone get to have fun but me?

  Wait, was that resentment she felt?

  * * * *

  Cassius plodded beneath him, weary and finally content, and Greysteil let the reins sag on the stallion’s neck, his hip bones swaying with the saddle and the horse’s stride. But although his body felt loose and relaxed, his face felt tight, as if he clenched his teeth like a dog growling over a bone. For three years he’d waited, observing the longing in her eyes as she’d watched that scandalous fashion-plate scoundrel dancing with whatever young thing was the current fad. Amiable those nymphs might be, aye, and delightful, too, not to mention easy on the eyes; but they couldn’t compare to the svelte, alluring Fidelity Scott.

  Nobody could.

  She’d fallen hard for Sylvestre Brightenburg, that useless lump of society fluff. All the cretin had had to do was strut into a room, staring around in his haughty, insufferable manner, and every female in the place swooned at his feet. As if swaggering were all that was necessary to make him important; as if pretending to be a man of class and distinction would make it so. As if projecting an assumed image of himself, rather than his degenerate reality, would make Brightenburg desirable.

  Truth be told, if that had been the fluff’s goal, he’d pretty much succeeded. Beautiful Fidelity Scott wasn’t the only gentlewoman who yearned at Brightenburg’s heels and the swooning debutantes were a copper to the dozen. Greysteil scowled. Someone needed to take that insufferable cretin to task and cut him down to a more fitting size, before one of those nymphs was hurt. Or worse. And society could only hope it wasn’t already too late.

  And Greysteil would cheerfully throw himself off the white cliffs of Dover before he’d let Fidelity suffer from the unthinking, selfish whims of a scoundrel, or from those of anybody else, for that matter. Even if she forgot his presence as soon as that idiot entered the room.

  Well, judging from her obvious embarrassment and reading between the lines of what she hadn’t admitted, she’d seen the error of her ways. She’d woken up, smelled the morning beverage, and gotten over her infatuation with the silly bugger. Now it was his turn.

  Greysteil smiled, although his jaws didn’t relax. He’d waited for three years. Now he could sweep Brightenburg under the proverbial carpet, like the fluff he strongly resembled, and possibly beneath a real one if the opportunity presented itself.

  And he could convince Fidelity to turn her attention in a much more promising direction — his.

  But to accomplish his heart’s desire in a single evening — as Prince Hamlet said, aye, there’s the rub. He’d have to convince her of his sincerity, the strength of his love and the constancy of his desire, while competing for her time and attention in the crush of a masked ball. A tall order, considering he hadn’t even been able to hold her eye since Brightenburg had moved to town.

  What he needed was a plan and for that he needed a drink. No, a workout. He turned Cassius toward Bond Street and shook the reins. A few rounds at Gentleman Jackson’s gymnasium would set him right up, then it would be time to dress for the evening.

  For Fidelity.

  3

  Fidelity’s nerve gave out at the first flash of brilliant blue silk in her boudoir’s candlelight. What was I thinking?

  “No, Mary, not that one. The—” She paused, near-panic setting her heart pounding and no backup plan ready. “The evening primrose lutestring instead.”

  Her lady’s maid hesitated at the wardrobe’s door. The blue silk in her arms shimmered in the candlelight, hints of gold flickering along the neckline. “The lutestring, miss? I thought—”

  “Yes, I know.” You too, huh? “The lutestring’s so much more suitable, don’t you think?”

  Mary studied her but carefully didn’t roll her eyes. “If you say so, miss.” She turned back to the wardrobe. The blue silk vanished inside.

  It’s for the best. Really.

  The deep yellow satin glowed like a torch as Mary laid it out on the bed. Fidelity had splurged on the material and on the delicate lace trim, on the seamstress and the matching slippers. It was a good color for her, emphasizing her golden brown hair and setting off her blue eyes.

  And I wore it all last season. Everyone in the West End knows that gown and they’ll know me in it. Wasn’t the point of this one final evening in town to be someone else, just for the night? To break free and make some lovely, atrocious memories to last the rest of my lonely life?

  Her thoughts roiled while Mary drew the silver-backed brush through her hair. Yes, that was resentment she felt, and it hadn’t quit squeezing her chest since Grey’s gallop away. Not that she particularly wished to emulate his riding, nor have a go at the races. But somewhere along her life’s pathway she’d put aside the delightfully fun antics, the ones Georgette and Jessica flaunted so shamelessly, and instead she’d drawn on a mask of serene gentility, of good manners and good sense and great dullness. No wonder Mr. Brightenburg paid her no attention; she interested him less than a well-trained horse or hound.

  Everyone said a sweet temperament and proper decorum were de rigueur for catching a husband. Emphasis on husband. If that word was removed from the equation… If less attention were paid to permanence, more to the singular experience… If she knew her behavior would never be attributed to her…

  Well, she could wriggle as sensuously as Georgette and have just as much fun in the process. By putting on a physical mask for one evening, she could remove the invisible one she’d worn for so long.

  For three years she’d observed Sylvestre Brightenburg. He danced with most of the debutantes, some of the young gentlewomen, and very few of the spinsters over twenty-one, meaning her peers. Those he did notice were all wealthy and beautiful, and those who held his attention the longest all wore evocative gowns.

  Hence her investment in blue silk and a Kentish needlewoman never patronized by her set. If anyone attempted to track down her mas
ked self, it wouldn’t be through her seamstress.

  And then afterward she could retire to Kent, virtue perhaps bereft, hopes faded to rags — but with memories to sustain her. At the thought, her heart pounded even harder.

  Mary swirled her mane into a loose twist on the back of her head, the same way she always did. It was a lovely hairstyle, well suited to her face, and yet…

  Fidelity fidgeted. “Let’s do something different tonight, Mary.”

  The maid paused. “With your hair, miss?” She let the strands fall through her fingers, and they collapsed into a luxuriant golden mass on Fidelity’s shoulder. “What do you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know,” Fidelity admitted. She sighed. “But something different. Remember the afternoon when we played with different hairstyles? What was the one you liked so much?”

  Mary’s face lit up. She separated out a lock on each side of Fidelity’s face, then combed the rest of her hair up the back of her head to the top, wrapped it around itself in layered waves, and pinned it into place. The remaining locks she braided on each side, leaving a few curly strands brushing her cheeks, weaving the plaits with thin blue and yellow ribbons and pinning them into a halo that framed her face.

  “There, miss. That will look divine with your mask.” Mary leaned over Fidelity’s shoulder and whispered into her ear. “It would look even diviner with that blue gown, too.”

  Fidelity shot her a look, but Mary’s chin was set; she meant what she’d said. And really, the hairstyle was so different from her norm. If she wore her plainest jewelry, say tiny gold studs like those everyone owned and a simple gold chain…

  “I’m right. And you know it.” Mary scooped the mask from the dressing table and held it in place.

  It covered all of her face, rather than just her eyes, curving around her jaw line and up her forehead to where the pinned braid provided a natural boundary. The blue silk covering looked like midnight in the flickering candlelight, and the gold trim and white pearls glinted. It was beautiful. And more than that, it changed her, the width of her face, the angle of her chin, the set of her eyes; a stranger looked back at her from the glass.

  The blue silk would complete the transformation, she knew. She’d never owned a gown like it, never anything so daring, and so no one would recognize her, not even her closest friends, not even Clarissa. Its lines accented hers, designed to draw a man’s eyes — designed to draw Brightenburg’s.

  Decision time. Did she dare?

  Mary shrugged, too casual by half. “I sp’ose you could always give that gown to the Miss Alcocks. If’n you’re not going to wear it, I mean.”

  In the glass, the stranger’s eyes flashed. Oh, yes, those two would be delighted to wear her gown. And they’d get into serious trouble with some rake or other the moment one of them wore it onto the street; they’d no more discretion or discernment than that well-trained hound she’d compared herself to earlier, and that was slandering the hound—

  —and if she carried out her plan, then she was no better—

  Face it, m’girl. You just don’t want anyone else wearing that gown, if you can’t. Or won’t.

  Truth, that; she didn’t. She’d designed it; she’d had it sewn; it was hers and hers alone. And so the honor of wearing it should go to—

  Fidelity sucked in a deep breath. It settled through her in a confident wave. Her course was set — or would that be my corset?

  “Let’s see how it looks.”

  * * * *

  The carriage had almost reached the Maynards’ town home and Georgette’s eyes still hadn’t returned to normal size. She shook her head slowly, staring at Fidelity — or was it her cleavage? — through the last of the sunset’s golden light. “I’ve just never seen you looking like this, Fi. You’re—”

  There’s the danger, right there. Fidelity’s temper roiled; those careless girls could ruin her evening before it began. “The first one of you who uses my name in company gets what?”

  With a gasp, Georgette slapped a hand over her mouth. “Your everlasting opprobrium.”

  “And no chance whatsoever to wear this gown! For the rest of your lives! I’ll shred it to dust rags first!”

  “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it, honestly!”

  Jessica laid a hand on Georgette’s heaving shoulder. “But we need to call you something. Give us a name and we won’t get it wrong again.”

  An excellent suggestion. Fidelity only paused a moment. “Call me Diana.”

  The Roman goddess of the hunt; the Italian for heavenly or divine. Both of the mouths before her formed perfect Os.

  It seemed a proper beginning to the evening.

  4

  The stir started a moment after they entered the ballroom.

  Fidelity didn’t notice it at first. Oh, she was aware that something untoward was going on, that the crowd rippled around her, heads turning, voices whispering; but she chalked it up to the usual general masked ball silliness and carried on with her business. A few seats remained unclaimed in the corner farthest from the musicians. Mask firmly in place, she led the girls through the crowd in that direction.

  Georgette whined. “Not there, F— Diana.”

  Fidelity glared; Georgette’s glance back was innocence itself. She leaned closer and whispered, “I didn’t say it. And not over in that dull corner. We’d have a much more entertaining evening here, with our friends.”

  “Absolutely,” Jessica said. “The fun crowd.”

  That sounded dangerous, and a glance at the “fun crowd” confirmed the suspicion. Several older girls, their fashionable gowns hovering on the accidental verge of decency — rather like hers — gathered behind decorated fans, already surrounded by a crowd of attentive dandies. One man glanced in their direction, his plain black mask shining in the candlelight, a sharp contrast against his pale hair; then he elbowed the man beside him. Within seconds, the entire male pack stared at her, more than one jaw hanging open.

  “Please,” Georgette wheedled.

  “Absolutely not.” Fidelity turned away and continued the trek to the far corner. Tonight was not the night for those silly girls to join her in ruination or even cause an embarrassing incident. It was her night to create some discreetly indiscreet memories once Georgette and Jessica were innocently distracted, and the “fun crowd” wouldn’t be much help there. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  But within steps she realized that young pack weren’t the only ones staring. Everywhere she looked, her gaze crossed someone else’s — two men at the refreshment table, several older ones near the door to the card room, a legion of redcoats beside the musicians’ dais, a gentleman in a deep blue tailcoat by the stairs. It seemed every man in the ballroom — and there were many many men in the ballroom — it seemed all of them stared at her.

  That ripple of motion when they’d entered, those whispers she’d heard at the edge of her awareness but hadn’t paid attention to… It had to be the blue silk gown. Don’t be silly; of course it’s the gown. Wasn’t that the entire point?

  But with the thought, a flutter began in her belly and rippled up her back, dithering through her various parts and bringing lightheaded heat to her face. For so many years she’d been — well, not precisely ignored, but not valued, either. Not sought out by the opposite sex, in all honesty. At some balls she’d enjoyed partners for every dance, but not at all of them, not by far. This sudden flood of attention drove all the air from her lungs and left her breathless, delightfully so.

  Jessica leaned closer on her other side. “Do you see…?”

  “Shh,” Fidelity said. She looped one arm through Jessica’s, the other through Georgette’s, and lead them to the far corner, her steps gliding and a small smile on her lips.

  Please, Lord, don’t let me trip. Or stumble. Or bobble. Or…

  * * * *

  She was stunning. And Greysteil was appropriately stunned.

  He’d taken up a stance by the staircase, feeling silly in his new navy blue swallowtail
coat — he should have worn his old black Melton, he’d have been much more comfortable, and instead he’d be worrying all night if this ridiculous thing fit him properly. He always felt that way in a new coat, no matter how well it looked in the tailor’s glass. But as soon as the glistening golden-haired beauty in the blue gown swept into the ballroom, he’d forgotten his wardrobe and stared.

  It was her. He couldn’t be fooled, no matter how that mask altered the lines of her face. Her step, her grace, the flash of gold from her upswept hair — so different from her normal style — the way she took command of the two girls in her train… no, Fidelity Scott couldn’t be hidden from him, no matter how extraordinary her simple disguise.

  And that gown! The silk fitted her upper body, outlining her luscious form in celestial blue the color of a darkening night sky, and the skirt clung to her legs as she walked. Swirling in front, kicking out behind her, it never quite gave him a clear image of her limbs hidden beneath the silk, just teasing moments of sudden clarity, followed too quickly by a flowing formlessness. It was the most exquisite torture he’d ever known, and he knew he’d never get enough of that torture to satisfy him.

  Ripples of attention followed her path, heads turning, whispers trailing behind. But she didn’t pause again. Georgette wearing primrose on Fidelity’s left arm, Jessica in puce on her right — the two girls weren’t nearly as well disguised — arm in arm, the three swept through the throng to a nearby cluster of chairs. Well-chosen strategic location, that; the girls wouldn’t be able to slip away, at least not through the garden door.

  “Who on earth…?”

  Greysteil glanced over his shoulder. A masked couple stood nearby, staring at the passing beauty. The woman had to be Lady Gower; unless she wore a wig or a full turban, there was no hiding her shining silver hair.