The man shook his head. “No idea,” he said a rich baritone. It sounded like Colonel Danning. “Are those the McTaggart and de Lisle girls with her?”
Mentally Greysteil shook his head; nope, not Lysandra McTaggart and Violetta de Lisle, although there were some outward similarities.
“Perhaps.” Lady Gower smiled, predatory as ever. “We must find out who she is.”
And ensure her identification is whispered to every broadsheet in town. Any fool could see where that was headed.
The other voices in the ballroom, the whispers surrounding them, sounded no less excited or curious, and no more certain. Judging by the reaction, no one else seemed to have penetrated Fidelity’s disguise. Only he recognized her.
A simple disguise, yes. But an amazingly complete one. Everything she’d been able to alter had been — her hairstyle, her wardrobe, her jewelry, her slippers. Why on earth had she taken such pains, especially since she intended leaving town as soon as he quit pestering her?
Grey’s heart stilled within him, then resumed beating, too hard, too fast. Last season Emily Cross, an ill-advised young lady possessed of more amour than wisdom, had contrived a disguise as complete for the Foresters’ Mid-Summer’s Eve ball. During the evening Emily had disappeared from the common view, only to return a half-hour later with a glowing smile, a dreamy expression, her mask dangling from her neck by its ribbons, and a grass-green stain running from her white gown’s back neckline to her bum. The full description and delicious details had made almost all the gossip sheets and the poor woman had escaped to the country within days.
If Fidelity intended an amorous fling, she would never lose the mask.
Surely not. Surely his sudden worry was based upon nothing more than his own overwrought anxieties. Fidelity embodied higher standards than that; she had more discretion, more wisdom. If she sought an adventure—
Well, in all honesty, he wasn’t certain what she’d do. She’d changed since Brightenburg had moved to town, become quieter, more introspective, more reserved and intensely private with her true thoughts and feelings. While he believed she’d not make a laughingstock of herself, the nagging worry niggling at his thoughts refused to be subdued.
No. No, he’d not think the worst of the situation, nor of her. Not immediately. He’d wait and watch and let her game play out. But the possibility only intensified his determination; he’d play his game, too.
And he’d not consider for a moment who she might have decided to play her game with.
Getting close to her in that crush was going to be a nightmare. But as she glided into a corner near the statuary and potted plants, as she turned and surveyed the crowd, the strength of the yearning that swept through him insisted it would be a worthy battle.
Because she was all he wanted, his only prize.
* * * *
Sylvestre Brightenburg nearly choked on his champagne. He couldn’t rip his stare from the Aphrodite who’d just crossed the ballroom, that ravishing and ravishable vision now standing by the potted plants as if guarding the door to the rear gardens. The two young ladies hanging on her arms were desperately ordinary in comparison — one in yellow, the other in pink, one’s hair darker, both wearing curls and ribbons; nothing he hadn’t seen, danced with, possessed, tossed away when they’d tired him. Sooner or later, they always tired him.
But this one, oh, she was magnificent. The proud lift of her chin, her graceful carriage, the businesslike stride combined with that fascinating sway, the generous gifts of her figure, softened but not disguised by the glorious blue silk — it was more than a man could stand. And if she hadn’t wanted his attention, all of his attention, then she shouldn’t have worn that gown.
He had to meet her and then she’d be his, for the evening, at least. And that was all he needed. Without a second thought, he pushed his way through the crowd.
* * * *
They converged on her from either side, two tall men behind simple black half-masks, the one wearing the blue tailcoat who’d earlier stood by the stairs and watched her trek across the ballroom, and Sylvestre Brightenburg. To the rest of the crowd, he might be anonymous, identifiable behind the mask only by black hair, hazel eyes, silk stockings, white breeches, and a stylish maroon swallowtail. To everyone else, he could only be a cipher. But he could never be hidden from Fidelity, and his swaggering approach through the ballroom’s flowing crowd hitched her breath in her throat.
His swaggering approach, aye. And his legs. Don’t forget those legs. Give the girl credit; Georgette had a point regarding what he does to silk stockings and breeches.
Both men paused at a polite distance and bowed. Both moved with exceptional grace; both demanded her attention by their very presence. And both spoke at once.
“Might I have—”
Blue Tailcoat broke off, his voice abandoning the impromptu and unintended duet, one strong hand rising and pushing his thick, dark forelock from his face. Something in the sudden movement spoke, not of indecision, but of an abrupt change of plans. Fidelity couldn’t be certain, for the moment lasted less than a second, and Brightenburg’s rich tenor didn’t pause.
“—the first dance?” He finished the sentence alone.
Gracious. The pounding sound she heard was her pulse, rising in her ears and skipping faster against the rustling of the surrounding crowd.
He’d noticed her. The blue gown had done its job within moments of her entrance. Sylvestre Brightenburg had noticed her and asked her to dance.
Fidelity started to blurt out the only possible answer she could return. But a motion on her right made her pause. Blue Tailcoat shifted from one foot to the other. His broad shoulders slumped and the scowl he shot in Brightenburg’s direction could only be called vexed.
“Exactly what I’d intended to say,” he said.
Blue Tailcoat. A mundane nickname for an elegant man, with his blunt jaw and well-fitting evening clothes, clear green eyes and thick dark hair. She might need a more appropriate moniker for him. Actually, she had the distinct feeling she should recognize him; a strange flavor of familiarity hung between them, as if his name tickled at the tip of her tongue but refused to stammer forth.
Even in the depths of her Brightenburg-induced giddiness, she wouldn’t be rude. She smiled at Blue Tailcoat. “Perhaps the second?”
Brightenburg’s turn to scowl. Even more thrilling; he disliked having competition. Terrible behavior for a gentlewoman, but oh, how delicious!
Blue Tailcoat’s answering smile was lopsided, good-natured, and totally charming. A tide of gentle warmth flowed beneath her giddiness. He said, “I shall await your return with bated breath.”
And then somehow her arm was through the crook of Brightenburg’s elbow and he’d whisked her away to join the lengthening line for the first dance.
5
“Will you give me your name?”
Brightenburg’s smile gleamed in the candlelight, somewhere between dazzling and downright wicked. Red and gold highlights glinted in his dark hair, reflected in the satin of his mask, flowed down his shoulders and chest along the maroon wool, tapering into shadows at his waist, and below that—
Fidelity jerked her gaze up. From across the line he watched her watching him, full lips pulled into a sideways smirk. His lips on hers… what would it be like? Did she dare find out tonight? He looked willing. Actually, he looked like Adonis, awaiting her exploring fingers; like Icarus, blazing and bright before his fall. The music started, a lively tune, and somewhere to her right movement began as the first couple, whoever they were, initiated the dance.
She’d waited so long for a night of her own. The reality was everything she’d dreamed of while hidden away in her boudoir — everything and more. Those weren’t imaginary toes curling, and if her heart pitter-pattered any faster, it would take off from out of her chest like a startled hummingbird.
She looked away, sucked in a steadying breath, and stepped sideways with the group, advancing along the dance’s lin
e. “My name? Correct me if I’m wrong, but wouldn’t that defeat the entire purpose of a masked ball?”
His eyebrows quirked in a humorous arch. “What good can come of not knowing one’s partner?”
The leading couple danced down the line — of course, the Maynards’ niece, Brenda, skipping along arm in arm with Mr. Culver. It wasn’t the first time the two had opened a ball together, but for some reason, the poor girl seemed pleased with her choice, glowing with delight as she approached then swishing past in a flash of icy muslin. In the line opposite, Brightenburg’s gaze followed the couple’s path, eyeing the girl’s backside — his target was impossible to miss — and tracing down toward the pale skin of her ankles, visible beneath her hemline as her skirts flared around her.
Fidelity’s fluttery excitement stilled, leaving her surprised and a trifle hurt. Willing, aye, he certainly seemed that. Granted, Belinda Maynard was a pretty girl and reportedly sweet-natured; her dowry was not inconsiderable. But a truly well-bred gentleman would reserve such attentions for his partner.
Brightenburg swung back around. His eyes had narrowed, his lip curled; he’d enjoyed the view, in a very basic way. Fidelity stifled a snort. Basic, indeed. And with her oh-so-brilliant plan, who was she to find fault?
That curled lip was entirely too roguish. She looked away and pretended not to notice his slight. The dancers swirled around her. Satins and silks flashed in the chandeliers’ blaze, delicate lace forming pale accents, flowers providing bright ones. The gentlemen’s maroons, deep blues, and sober blacks strengthened the line. Several dancers wore that new green silk everyone was raving about; she’d nearly bought it instead of the celestial blue, but the extra expense had been fearful. It was beautiful, though.
Partway down the line, a familiar and charming smile caught her eye. Blue Tailcoat chatted with a young lady in primrose yellow, and Fidelity blinked before she recognized Georgette, demure and delightful behind her half-mask. The change from the hoyden who’d helped terrorize the morning room last week was astounding. Perhaps there was hope for that girl yet. Well… perhaps.
Still not their turn. With so many couples in the line, the dance could last ten minutes or more. Fidelity folded her hands and didn’t bother to hide her smug little smile. Ten minutes with Sylvestre Brightenburg was no punishment.
Even if his eye tended to wander. She’d noticed that tendency in him before; why hadn’t she been prepared to endure it?
He cleared his throat. “If admiration grows between us, wouldn’t it be preferable if we could find each other after the evening’s entertainment is past? And if we decide our personalities and tastes don’t suit, wouldn’t it be better if we knew to avoid each other’s company?”
“Oh, but there’s excitement in mystery.” Her moment of satisfaction had softened the sting of his slight, and her voice held steady. Of course he hadn’t hurt her on purpose, and hadn’t she been thrilled mere minutes ago for having any of Sylvestre Brightenburg’s attention, any at all? “Wouldn’t it be better to allow our mutual admiration or otherwise to grow without interference from prior assumptions? Perish the thought, but if I’d previously formed a dislike for the cut of your jib—” as if that were possible — “then a few hours of mystery now might go far to change that opinion.”
He scowled. So quickly his mood changes. “At least tell me your residence.” No gruffness in his tone, nor wheedling, but a firmness that spoke of determination. “St. James’s Square, I’ll be bound. You’ve the air and deportment of a duchess.”
The pounding of her heart intensified. She’d thought their bantering a game, but his scowl gave her pause. He was serious, determined to learn her identity, and her thrill deepened, shivering her from hair to slippers.
Sylvestre Brightenburg, London’s beau to end all beaux, intended to peer beneath her mask.
Excellent.
“And the gown,” he added, his glance roving over her and lingering at her bosom. “That’s the gown of a noblewoman, to be sure.”
Only his gaze touched her, but it scorched like a physical flame. Fidelity tingled, all too aware of his nearness, his strength, his heat, and the tingling rippled out from her center to places she didn’t normally think about while in company. If he could cause such exquisite sensations with only a look, what of his lips? his hands? his…
And still he stared. The need to squirm rose within her, tempering the lovely tingling and tamping her internal fire down to a dim glow. That was altogether too long and too intimate a stare for such a gathering. If witnessed, tongues would begin wagging: Sylvestre Brightenburg’s got his eye on that wench in blue, the one in the shameless dress. Who is she? And surely everyone in the ballroom was already transfixed by the spectacle of Brightenburg making a spectacle of her. No need to look; she could feel their stares, just as she felt his.
No, catching the public fancy would spoil everything. She’d be watched, hounded, followed home, and she’d never be able to slip away from the ballroom unobserved, the most crucial step in executing her plan without ruining herself the rest of the way. (Was it possible to be just a little bit ruined? Curious thought.) A chance to retire to somewhere more private with a certain gentleman would never present itself if the entire crowd watched her, and her evening’s effort would be wasted.
Because she’d never work up the nerve to try her brilliant plan a second time.
Fidelity turned sideways, giving Brightenburg a good view of her shoulder, and peered back along the line. Georgette still stood in position, her smile mischievous but at least not outrageously so, and Blue Tailcoat seemed charmed as well as charming. Fidelity kept looking. A pale pink gown two positions further along, another pale pink past the emerald silk, more pale pink toward the end — but no deep puce, the shade of a dusky rose. No Jessica. Not good.
The music lifted and it was finally their turn. She advanced to meet Brightenburg, almost to kissing distance — far too warm in this ballroom; what on earth were the Maynards thinking with that massive fire? — then they retreated back to the line, cut behind their waiting neighbors in a round robin, traded places with them, advanced again. Her feet and body performed without her conscious assistance, her attention mesmerized by the gold flecks in Brightenburg’s eyes. Admiring him was delightful; dancing with him was electrifying. His every step hit the beat precisely — if only mine did — and his grace made her feel clumsy in comparison.
Still he stared at her, his lip curling again. What on earth was he seeing in her expression that riveted him so? Whatever it was, the thought of him reading her secret intentions so clearly sent said intentions scurrying for shelter, to somewhere deep within her, and she quailed. Her heart pounded, and not only with the exercise. No, she couldn’t go through with it. Yes, she could. No—
His arms entwined with hers, breaking her ridiculous roundabout of indecision, and they turned, skipping together between the lines toward the far end. That lovely heat began again, centered beneath his forearm where it pressed against her stomach, far too intimate a touch and not at all proper, no matter how much her decadent half enjoyed it. Oh, this wasn’t working out at all as she’d planned. Those eyes, encircling them around the ballroom — they followed her every motion, catalogued his every flirtation. Witnesses; far far too many witnesses for her to slip away.
Frantic for a diversion, Fidelity again scanned the ballroom as they danced along, the deep colors of the men’s attire flashing past on one side, the pale and brilliant shades of the women’s on the other. A gentleman wearing a sober black Melton coat and a plain black mask stood near the doors to the card room, chatting with Mrs. Maynard. The coat looked rather like Grey’s, but the man himself wasn’t quite… too tall, too stocky? Or was she merely misjudging the perspective? It was the closest she’d seen to Grey’s disreputable old coat, the one he wore nearly everywhere, and yet she couldn’t convince herself it was he.
Frowning, she kept looking. No puce gowns along the front half of the line. None near the musicia
ns’ dais or the refreshment area. Thankfully, none near the fun crowd, thanks be for small blessings.
At the line’s end they separated, his fingers sliding through hers and brushing her hip in passing. She rounded Brenda Maynard, still smiling and with a damp glow tugging the curl from her bangs, and then Fidelity danced back behind the distaff line. Not near the stairs, nor at the entrance to the card room—
There. Closing in on the door to the gardens, a dusky rose gown, walking far too close beside a tall masculine form decked out in those dandified formal trousers Beau Brummell wore to such effect. Any young man wearing those was automatically not a suitable companion for one of her cousins, certainly not outside among the heady scents of the slumbering earth, and most certainly not without a chaperone.
And the behavior she expected from her young cousins had no bearing whatsoever on the behavior she couldn’t decide whether to expect from herself.
Without pausing, Fidelity danced right past her place in line. Ducking her chin, she eased to a gliding walk, slid through the crowd of watchers, ignored the increasing whispers and turning heads, wended her way between bodies toward the far corner at the fastest pace she dared, and cut her cousin and Trousers off at the door.
“And precisely where do you think you’re going, young lady?”
Jessica’s ribbons bobbed as she jumped. “F— for pity’s sake, Diana, you startled me.”
Trousers released Jessica’s arm as if she’d electrified him. His red mask flared in the candlelight, a strong masculine statement, but his guilty grin spoke more of a schoolroom too recently left.
“You most certainly weren’t intending to wander the gardens this evening, were you? Without a chaperone?” She glared at Trousers with serious and violent intent. With all their fascinated witnesses, she’d better hope nothing happened to him that night. No barrister would ever be able to get her off, lightly or otherwise, should he take a tumble in front of a runaway carriage or anything.
Love, Unmasked Page 3