Marquesses at the Masquerade

by Emily Greenwood

  * * *

  Exmore cursed himself for sending the letter and illustration as he ambled toward his club. He might as well have tossed them into a void.

  Although he had written that he would kindly avoid her, he desired to see her eyes and hear what she had said when she read the letter. Their conversation had been left dangling. Its incompleteness bothered him, because he had so much he wanted to say to her. He couldn’t explain it, but the only person in London he really wanted to talk to was her. He wanted to speak about more than Patrick. He wanted to tell her about Cassandra and how disoriented he had felt after she died.

  But the kindest thing he could do was keep silent and walk away from Miss Van Der Keer. Too much bad history rested between them for any kind of friendly acquaintance. But during that time with her, as the fat moon had looked on, she had raised him above the gloom that weighed daily in his chest. He had a glimmer of hope that he could be attracted again to a proper lady and not sink to emotionless, soulless trysts.

  He found himself standing before the print shop window where he had spied Annalise a few days ago. The small optimism in his heart faltered. All the illustrations of Visser had been taken down, replaced with political cartoons about the Prince Regent. He didn’t know why, but it felt like an omen as he gazed at the grotesque, exaggerated images of the corpulent prince instead of the beautiful drawings that had captivated Miss Van Der Keer.

  He stepped inside. A different clerk, older than the one Annalise had enthralled, was setting out more ugly caricatures.

  “Where are the Visser images?” Exmore demanded, a strange note of panic in his voice.

  “Couldn’t sell them,” the man replied with a shrug. “We sold the lot of them to a shop on the Continent.” The clerk then nodded to a newspaper folded on the table beside Exmore. “Aye, but if you’re interested, Mr. Visser is in London lecturing. Perhaps he will have some prints with him.”

  “May I?” Exmore lifted the paper and flipped through the pages until he found:

  Mr. Christiaan Visser, renowned Dutch naturalist, will speak at the Royal Institution. Interested ladies and gentlemen are invited to attend.

  The article went on to give the specifics of the time and room. Annalise needed to know about this lecture!

  Yet, he had written that he would keep his distance from her. Hang it all.

  “You may take the paper, sir, if it pleases,” the clerk said.

  Exmore shook his head and replaced the paper on the table. “No, thank you.” If Annalise were meant to attend that lecture, she would have to learn about it through another means. He had given her his word.

  He left, feeling that old edgy restlessness set in. For the rest of the afternoon, he could settle nowhere for very long, moving from club to club until the day’s session of Parliament began. He wanted to disappear into a gaming hell, letting brandy and the thrill of the turn of cards crowd out his gloominess. But dammit, he had to get better. He couldn’t live his life this way. He had to find a way out.

  Back at home after Parliament, he shuffled through his invitations. He received six or so invitations for balls or recitals for any given night during the Season. He rarely received invitations to dine anymore, having left too many embarrassed matrons with an empty seat at their tables. As he glanced at the names, he wondered where Annalise might be.

  Why can’t you stop thinking about her? Let her go, good man.

  He tossed the invitations face down on the table and blindly picked one—a ball given by Lord Carruthers.

  He had his valet adonize him and the carriage sent around.

  For all his trouble, he danced three sets with pretty young things who possessed sweet smiles and insipid conversation. He could see the large moon looming through the windows—the same full moon that had shone the night of the masquerade, yet this night had none of the previous night’s magic. He caught himself scanning the crowd, looking for Annalise. But she wasn’t there. Frivolity surrounded him, yet he felt miserably alone and despondent. The sirens sang in his ear, Come away to a gaming hell. Stop trying, it’s no use.

  By ten o’clock, he had succumbed. He slumped in a chair around a card table, drinking his second brandy and pondering whether to hold or ask for another card in a game of vingt-et-un. He held a ten of spades and an eight of diamonds. Good, but perhaps not quite good enough to win. But as he considered the probabilities of his cards, he realized he didn’t care about winning or losing. They felt the same—empty and dull.

  Behind him, two young bucks were drinking at a small round table. They had been there for almost half an hour, but now their conversation drifted to his ear.

  “Miss Littleton. I’ll wager she will be engaged in two weeks,” he heard one say. “Many fellows are vying for her.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. The two men had been joined by a third, a dandy wearing a padded black coat and a collar so high it brushed against his earlobes. A book was set on the table before the men, and a servant had brought over an inkwell.

  “I’ll put down ten pounds that she’ll be engaged in six days,” the dandy said in an affected bored drawl. “She has tolerable looks and possesses a very tolerable dowry.”

  A gentleman with reddish-gold hair and dry skin spotted with pale freckles wrote down the wager. Their friend, a slight man with dollop-like blond curls that fell over his eyes, put forth another name. “Miss Poplin. Let us discuss, gentlemen.”

  Exmore returned to his cards. He accepted another from the dealer. A seven. He had overplayed. He laid down his cards, took another sip of brandy, and waited for the next hand to be dealt because he couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. Going to the theater or another party seemed like too much effort.

  The name Miss Van Der Keer seemed to pop from the conversation behind him.

  He spun around.

  “You are cracked, Ronald,” the curly blond said. “Don’t you know who she is? Let me enlighten you.” The man launched into tales of Annalise’s previous Season, either embellished or plainly false. Exmore’s fingers balled into a fist.

  “No one will ask for her hand,” the curly-haired man concluded. “I’m betting ten pounds Miss Van Der Keer won’t be accepted in any homes by next week, let alone receive a proposal. Write it down, Simon. Write, man. Seven days to social disgrace.” Delighted maliciousness filled his laugh.

  The dandy waved his hand dismissively. “That’s too easy, my boy. She’s already been cut by the Danverses tonight.”

  “What?” Exmore exclaimed.

  The men’s faces brightened from Exmore’s attention.

  “Good evening, Lord Exmore!” said the freckled man recording the wagers. “We were placing bets on the fates of this year’s crop of ladies. Care to wager?”

  Exmore bit back the retort to put him down for one hundred pounds that his fist would bloody their faces within the next five minutes. “What did you say about Miss Van Der Keer?”

  “She’s been cut by the Danverses.” The dandy’s mouth was twisted in the smug smirk of a man who knew a piece of news before anyone else. “I was there myself not fifteen minutes ago. The old girl was in tears because no gentleman of any consequence had asked her to dance. I recall you weren’t very fond of her. Warned your cousin off that wild hoyden. Care to wager?”

  “Go to hell.” Exmore headed for the door.

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  “I’m terribly sorry your niece is suffering such a headache and must go home,” Mr. Danvers told Aunt Sally. The Danverses had herded Aunt Sally, Phoebe, and Annalise into a corner. The host wore a stiff smile, trying to disguise the unpleasant conversation. Annalise didn’t have a headache. It was merely a flimsy excuse cooked up by the host to politely expel her.

  All of Mr. Danvers’s delicate diplomatic work was undone by his wife, who wept into her lacy handkerchief. “But I planned this ball for months, my love,” she wailed. “All the food, flowers, musicians. She’s ruined it.”

  Mr. Danvers rested
his hand on his wife’s arm. “Dearest, please, contain yourself. Others are watching.”

  Annalise felt the prickling heat of the guests’ curious glances like hot ants crawling along her skin. She wanted to shout at them, You mean nothing to me. In a few weeks’ time, she hoped to board a ship to Holland and put miles of cold, turbulent ocean between herself and this snobbish city. Its shine had been tarnished. But she had to maintain her civility for Phoebe’s and her aunt’s sake. They had to continue to swim in these infested waters.

  “Come away, Aunt Sally.” Annalise beckoned her aunt quietly, hoping to escape without creating an even bigger scene.

  “Mr. Danvers, she is like my own daughter,” Mrs. Sommerville implored. “Let her stay.” Aunt Sally’s pleading tones were edged with hysteria.

  “I understand that this is a delicate matter,” Mr. Danvers said. “I assure you I’m only thinking of Miss Van Der Keer’s well-being.”

  Annalise stifled a bark of bitter laughter.

  “This is cruel,” Phoebe cried. “I shall tell Papa.”

  Annalise couldn’t see how that would improve matters by any measure.

  “Phoebe, you can remain and enjoy yourself,” Annalise said, trying to remain calm. “My feelings shan’t be hurt. I assure you that a quiet evening of reading in my chamber would do wonders for my, um, headache.”

  “I shall speak to Mr. Sommerville tomorrow,” Mr. Danvers said. “Of course, this little incident will not lessen my esteem for the gentleman. These things do happen from time to time.”

  Annalise bit back the desire to say, Oh yes, it’s always unfortunate when you must humiliate someone because you have no backbone and always bow to Society’s whim. Well, I would rather have the approval of innocent daises in the fields than yours. No wonder her father had preferred animals and plants to people. Of course, he had always been far wiser than she.

  “Let my niece stay,” Aunt Sally pleaded. “My husband will be so vexed. He has such a temper.” Aunt Sally pressed her hands together as if praying. “Doesn’t Annalise look lovely? I know her gown is a few years old, but she has done her hair differently for your ball. You can’t turn away someone so lovely.”

  “I concur,” a rich baritone interjected.

  Mr. Danvers wheeled around. There stood Lord Exmore. Annalise sucked in her breath. This wasn’t the Exmore she remembered. He had been the stiffly proper sort, perfect in manner and manicure. He had gazed at the world with reserved, disapproving eyes—or, at least, that was how he had gazed at her. This Exmore sported a reckless smile, and his hair was unkempt. Dark curls lined with prematurely silver threads fell over his forehead. Dry wrinkles crowded the corners of his eyes. His once chiseled face was slightly bloated, sagging at the corners of his mouth. This was the face of a dissipated libertine whose lifestyle was aging him before his time. Annalise struggled to reconcile this Exmore with the man she had known years ago. She couldn’t. The death of his wife had altered his soul beyond recognition. This man was a stranger.

  The Danverses turned, as shocked as Annalise at seeing Exmore.

  “My lord.” The hostess fell into a deep curtsey. “You honor us.”

  What was happening? Had Exmore not been invited? This party was a few social tiers beneath him, so she hadn’t expected to see him here.

  “And I would be exceedingly honored if Miss Van Der Keer and her cousin Miss Sommerville would save a dance for me, if their dances are not spoken for.” He spoke in pleasant tones, although his chest heaved as if he had run here.

  What was he doing? He had given his word that he would stay away from her.

  “Yes!” Phoebe cried.

  Exmore shifted his gaze to Annalise. A beckoning glow warmed his eyes, and he held out his hand for her to take. She studied his long fingers that tapered at the ends. She realized that he was offering to be her savior. He might have been a rake, but his title and wealth solidified his place on the Mount Olympus of London Society. Was he trying to save her? It was too late for her, but she knew she had to take his hand for Phoebe’s and Aunt Sally’s sake. Still, she remained unmoving; everything seeming to slow down around her.

  Then he whispered, “Please.”

  She shivered at the intimacy of the sound, as if he were aware only of her and not everyone staring at them. She reached out and clasped his hand.

  His warm fingers wrapped around hers. Her lips parted. His touch felt as it had the night before—like an old, comforting friend.

  * * *

  Exmore continued to hold her hand, afraid that if he let go, she would be washed away by an invisible ocean. He could tell that the stares of others unnerved her. They didn’t bother him, because he had grown accustomed to them. He had learned in these last years, after some of the most notorious nights of his life, to keep his head high and wear a cocky, dangerous smile, no matter what he had done.

  He began, “I know I gave you my word that—”

  “I meant to write you, but I couldn’t find the right words,” she broke in. “I thought if I waited a bit, the perfect words would magically appear. Such as when you’re not even thinking about it, but simply setting about lighting candles or mending a sleeve, and suddenly, ‘Oh my goodness, those are the words!’ Typically, it happens after I’ve posted a letter.” Her laugh was brittle, in the manner of one making a joke to hide nervousness.

  “Ah, then you still have time. Perhaps the words will come to you as we dance.” He led her onto the floor as dancers were assembling for the next dance. Her hand clenched in his.

  She shook her head. “I think the only word I have is ‘sorry.’ I’m sorry that I reacted so strongly last night. I’m very confused now. Everything is…” She shook her head. “I can’t explain it.”

  “Try,” he encouraged.

  Her brows dropped in concentration, and then she said, “This thing on your waistcoat. What is it?”

  “A button.”

  “What?” She shot him a comical look. “No! That is not what you call a button. That is a spinneybob. Everyone knows it’s a spinneybob.”

  “What?” He played along with her game. “I’ve called it a button my entire life.”

  “Well, you were wrong your entire life. It’s a spinneybob.”

  “Ah, I see what you’re getting at.”

  “You do?”

  “You’ve changed so drastically that you don’t recognize your own world.”

  Her bright expression fell to a more serious one, which fit more comfortably on her nervous features. “Yes. Precisely.”

  “I know that feeling well.”

  “You see, we are supposed to be enemies. But now it seems we are not.”

  “We can still be enemies if that is your preference?”

  “Perhaps.” She smiled teasingly and then added, “No. I like you better this way.”

  That radiance he remembered at the print shop enshrouded her as she studied him with tender eyes. It seemed that his entire day had culminated in this moment. As if he had known at some hidden level in his mind that it would, and he had simply been killing time, hanging about clubs and hells, waiting for this dance to arrive.

  “I didn’t see you at the party earlier.” A nervous quality entered her voice. “How did you know…well…”

  “That you were in social peril?”

  “I adore how you phrased that.”

  “I heard from somewhere that you may be in a spot of trouble. And although I left my musketeer beard and trusty sword at home, I couldn’t resist the beckoning of a lady in distress.”

  She laughed. The sweetness had a calming effect—like hot tea on a dreary morning. “I’m not so distressed, but I thank you on behalf of my aunt and cousin.”

  “Not distressed? You hurt my chivalrous pride, señorita.”

  She glanced about the room. “The thing is, I’m leaving London for Holland—where my father is from.” There was no excitement in her voice, only resignation and sadness. “There’s nothing for me here except my cousins.
And it seems they would be much better off if I were gone as well.”

  He couldn’t deny the prick of panic. I’m here. You can’t leave me alone.

  Patrick would soon be here as well.

  Exmore decided it was better to keep this knowledge to himself and lure her with something more innocent and uncomplicated. “Ah, I know a secret that may change your mind. I shall tell you on the dance floor.”

  “Ooh, I dislike when people do that. You must tell me now. No secrets.”

  “You must wait for this secret that I know you will adore. It’s a scintillating tale.”

  “You are cruel,” she said and then chuckled. He remembered once comparing Annalise’s beauty to Cassandra’s, finding fault in Annalise’s more countrified features. Cassandra belonged on carved marble. The cool, idealized beauty. But Annalise’s face was meant for kindness and playfulness. You couldn’t love her face without falling in love with all of her. Not that he was falling in love. He truly didn’t know, because he couldn’t trust his emotions anymore. He was merely happy to be with her at this very moment. That was enough.

  She groaned. “Must we dance? Couldn’t you have saved this damsel in distress for a card game or a glass of punch?”

  “Hold on to me, and all will be well.”

  She shook her head. “No, it will not be well. Your toes and the toes of other dancers will suffer greatly.”

  “Come now, don’t you want to know my delightful secret?”

  She considered and then wagged her finger. “Very well, but it’s your own fault if I smash up your toes.”

  “Smile as you do it, and I won’t notice.”

  When he led her onto the chalked floor, numerous other couples rushed forward to claim spots. This happened whenever he attended a ball. Exmore couldn’t understand his allure. In his own mind, he led a boring, embarrassing, desperate existence. He should have been banned from polite society long ago, but his deplorable behavior only seemed to fuel his popularity. Yet, the more Society desired of him, the less he desired of Society. He wished he could whisk Annalise away to a terrace, far from the curious looks. There, they could talk and laugh. He didn’t want much anymore from life, only the simplest, most commonplace of things, such as good conversation.