He drew her closer, his hold on her tightening as he started leading her toward the ship. Mary inhaled sharply, her entire world tumbling toward the unknown as his scent assaulted her senses: the masculine smell of sandalwood mingling with brandy and a faint hint of tobacco. Her heart rate accelerated—more so as she felt her upper arm pressed against his.
“Perhaps after supper, you will grant me a dance?” His voice was low, a gravelly whisper that brushed the side of her neck.
Focusing on her breaths, Mary struggled to regain control. Her reaction was purely physical, she reminded herself—the thrill of winning a gentleman’s favor for the very first time. And yet she knew that there was more to it than that. She’d genuinely enjoyed their conversation and sensed that he had as well. “I have promised to dance the reel with Viscount Bertram, and after that is the country dance with the Earl of Rotridge.”
“I see.” They walked a few more paces before he asked, “Are you free for the waltz?”
“I . . .” She felt herself grow inexplicably warmer. “I must admit that I have never danced it before. I am not familiar with the steps.”
His hold on her tightened even further. “The waltz is simpler than the other dances. I trust we can manage.” The words rumbled around her as he spoke. “Besides, I do believe it is the only dance worthy of a woman like you.”
“A woman like me?”
Turning his head, his eyes met hers from behind his mask. The intensity of his gaze sent a rush of heat spiraling along her limbs. “I saw you when you were listening to the music. Your eyes were closed and your expression was filled not only with pleasure, but with deep focus.” Nearing the gangway leading onto the Endurance, they found themselves gradually surrounded by other guests who were making their way to supper. He lowered his voice and dipped his head toward hers. “It appeared as though you were listening to a story.”
“Of course I was,” she said as he guided her onto the gangplank and escorted her aboard. “A piece of music is not merely a collection of notes strung together with the sole purpose of pleasing the senses. There is always a story.”
“One that most people are incapable of hearing unless someone tells them what it is,” he said. “And even then they often lack the patience required. But you clearly heard it. This knowledge, coupled with your fondness for Miss Austen’s books, suggests that you are a romantic, possessing a creative mind and a passionate nature. It therefore goes without saying that the waltz is the only dance that will move you, and consequently the only one worth dancing.”
His analysis made her feel slightly dizzy. It was true that she’d never had a particular fondness for dancing, perhaps because she’d always felt that most dances were a poor expression of the music, completely lacking in any emotion. But the waltz . . . she had to admit that the waltz had always tempted because it seemed to allow for a deeper expression.
Stepping down from the gangplank and onto the deck of the ship, she held on to Signor Antonio’s arm as they drifted between the round tables dotting the deck. Each had been dressed in pristine white with bouquets of bright red roses adorning the centers. Spotting Sarah, Mary tapped her companion on the arm. “I see my friend, Viscountess Spencer,” she said. “Perhaps we can join her and her husband?”
Signor Antonio stiffened as he looked in the direction she indicated. “It seems rather crowded over there, does it not?”
“Not especially,” Mary said, a little surprised by his obvious reluctance. “But if you would rather stay here, then—”
“No. I will not keep you from your friend, my lady.” Releasing her arm, he took a step back, leaving Mary bereft. “Enjoy your supper with the Spencers, and your dances with Bertram and Rotridge. I will find you when it is time for the waltz.” Reaching for her hand, he bowed over it with reverence. Then, straightening himself once more, he hesitated only a moment before turning away and striding back toward the gangplank. In an instant, it was almost as if he’d never been there at all.
Mary’s chest tightened, and she deliberately took a breath to force back the feeling of loss that assailed her. She was being ridiculously silly. After all, she’d barely known him for more than one hour. And yet within that hour, she’d felt a connection blossoming between them. For the first time in her life, she’d felt both beautiful and understood.
“Who was that?” Sarah asked when Mary joined her.
“Someone with whom I seem to have a great deal in common.”
Sarah smiled. “Commonality is a wonderful foundation for a lasting relationship.”
“We have only just met,” Mary confessed. She frowned in response to her own words. “Or at least I believe we have. I did not recognize his voice.”
“You have not seen his face?” Sarah asked with a note of surprise and interest.
Mary shrugged one shoulder. “It is a masquerade. The novelty lies in the mystery.” In truth, the more she’d spoken to Signor Antonio, the less she’d cared about what he might look like beneath his mask, though she’d be lying to herself if she said she wasn’t curious.
“I suppose that is true to some extent,” Sarah agreed. “Besides, a man may be the handsomest one in the world, but that is neither here nor there if he lacks the ability for intelligent thought and conversation.”
“I completely agree,” Mary said. Her eyes strayed to Lord Spencer who was too busy talking to his friend, the Earl of Chadwick, to be paying attention to the conversation that Mary was having with his wife. “But it does look as though you have managed to acquire a husband who lacks neither wits nor looks.”
Smiling broadly, Sarah sighed with obvious contentment. “I know. I am the most fortunate woman there is.” Lowering her voice to a whisper, she leaned a little closer to Mary and said, “Perhaps you can be too.”
Mary felt her spine stiffen. “A brief encounter with a perfect stranger is hardly enough to suggest an imminent courtship.”
“You never know,” Sarah insisted. “It did for me.”
“Yes, but your situation is entirely different. You have always wanted to get married.”
“And you have not?”
The look of incomprehension in Sarah’s eyes made Mary feel like a whale who’d somehow managed to get itself stuck inside a fish bowl. She shook her head. “I like my life the way it is.”
“But what about your aunt? I thought she brought you here with the sole purpose of securing a good match for you.”
It was true. In fact, her aunt was growing quite desperate where Mary’s prospects were concerned—a difficult situation since Mary had other plans for her future. To Sarah she said, “That does not mean that I am destined to end up at the altar.”
“But surely you must have considered the idea of marriage and what the benefits would be for you?”
“Of course I have,” Mary said, recalling the conversation she’d had with Signor Antonio earlier. Reading Miss Austen’s books had made it very difficult not to consider it. But what most people did not think about when they read such books, was that they only described the process of falling in love. They did not address the life that followed the early days of young romance or the restrictions forced upon women the moment they entered into the marriage itself. “After much deliberation I have come to the conclusion that the benefits will be few when compared with what I stand to lose. I value my independence too much to sacrifice it for any man.”
“Independence should certainly not be dismissed, but unlike you, I do believe it is worth sacrificing for the right man.” Glancing toward her husband, Sarah said, “Especially since the right man will not seek to restrict you without good reason.”
“I shall have to take your word for that as the more experienced woman among us,” Mary said, deciding not to argue.
Sarah smiled. “I know that you are not convinced and yet I cannot help but wonder if your mystery companion might tempt you to change your mind.”
Deliberately, Mary rolled her eyes, diminishing the impact of Sarah’s word
s. “When I know next to nothing about him? How absurd!”
“And yet you continue to blush whenever he is mentioned. I find that delightfully curious.”
“Very well,” Mary conceded. “I will admit that I thought him both charming and interesting, but to imagine that he and I might form an attachment based on that alone would be quite a stretch, would it not?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Sarah said with trembling lips. “I cannot see how it can possibly work when you are so set against it.”
“Now you are just mocking me,” Mary muttered.
“I would not dare.” But the sparkle in Sarah’s eyes said otherwise, and Mary couldn’t help but laugh in response.
Returning to the terrace after supper, Mary joined Lord Bertram for the reel. He was an older gentleman—perhaps fifteen years her senior—with polite manners that unfortunately failed to compensate for his lack of conversational skill or sense of humor. As the well-bred young lady that she was, Mary made a genuine effort to respond to his comments. But discussing how wonderful the evening was, the magnificence of Thorncliff, and their good fortune in regard to the weather, proved increasingly tedious. So much so that Mary was extremely relieved when the dance finally drew to an end so she could escape Lord Bertram’s company.
Looking around, she sought Signor Antonio, wondering where he might be, but was quickly discouraged from doing so when Lord Rotridge stepped into her path. “Are you ready for our country dance?” he asked with a crooked smile. Dressed in evening black, he’d chosen a domino that revealed more of his face than it hid, making him easier to recognize than most.
“Certainly, my lord,” Mary said with a final glance directed toward the far corner of the terrace where light disappeared into darkness. A figure stood there, silhouetted against the shadows. Mary stared, the leap of her pulse ensuring her of who it was, even as he melted away completely. Inhaling sharply, she turned away and accepted the arm that Rotridge offered, acutely aware that she was being watched.
“You look delightful this evening,” Rotridge said as he guided her between the colonnade of dancers a few minutes later. “Such a lovely departure from your usual self. A man would have to be mad not to dance with you.”
Mary couldn’t help but frown. “Is that supposed to be a compliment, my lord?”
He chuckled slightly. “Forgive me, Lady Mary. It was not my intention to insult you but rather to praise your choice of costume. I cannot recall ever seeing you with your hair down before. It suits you.”
Looking up at him, she studied the confident glow in his eyes, “I must admit that I was surprised when you asked me to dance with you this evening. You have never made the effort before.”
His expression turned instantly somber as he took her by the hand and led her in a small circle at the end of the colonnade. “A mistake, on my part, for which I can only hope that you will eventually forgive me.” There was a brief pause, and then, “I have known you since you were a little girl, Lady Mary. Admittedly, it has taken some time for me to realize that you have grown into a beautiful young woman.”
They drew apart, joining the colonnade while other couples danced between them. Standing across from her, Rotridge regarded her with heated interest. She waited, expecting to feel something in return, but soon discovered that she felt nothing at all. Again, she chanced a look toward the far corner of the terrace, disappointment surging through her when she found only empty darkness.
“Perhaps you would care to go boating with me some time,” Rotridge inquired when they stepped toward each other again and spun around the floor. “Or if you prefer a picnic, I shall be happy to make the arrangements.”
“Afternoon tea on the terrace would be equally nice,” Mary said. She might not be any more interested in him than she would be in a rock, but at least he was finally making an effort.
Rotridge frowned. “Is that not too mundane?”
“I do not know,” Mary hedged. “I quite enjoy my afternoon tea and the terrace here is so lovely, filled as it is with the scent of roses and jasmine.”
“But you can have tea on the terrace whenever you please,” Rotridge protested. “It does not seem special enough and I . . .” He offered her a broad smile. “I was hoping to do something special for you—something that might convince you of my high regard.”
Mary attempted a smile in return. “That is very kind of you, my lord. Perhaps you are right. A boat ride does sound like an enjoyable way in which to pass the afternoon.”
“Splendid!” His eyes flashed brightly. “It will give us a chance to make up for lost time.”
“I suppose so,” Mary said as they stepped apart once more. Watching him, she could not deny his good looks. But ever since he’d inherited the property neighboring her grandfather’s almost ten years ago, he’d done little more than greet her politely whenever their paths had happened to cross during her annual visits. True, she had been a child then while he had been a young man affected by his father’s early passing, but his keen interest in her now still seemed odd.
The music faded and she dropped into a curtsy while Rotridge bowed elegantly in response. Rising, Mary accepted the arm that he offered and allowed him to lead her toward the refreshment table. “My lord, may I ask you a question?”
Glancing down at her, Rotridge raised an eyebrow. “Of course.”
They reached the refreshment table where Rotridge picked up a glass of champagne and offered it to Mary. “Thank you, but I would rather have some lemonade, if it is not too much trouble.”
“Lemonade?” Turning his head, he glanced down at a large glass jug, his mouth twisting into something of a grimace. Returning his attention to Mary, he said, “Only spinsters and wallflowers would ever think to drink lemonade at a ball, and you, my lady, are neither.” He held the champagne toward her with greater insistence.
Mary’s back went rigid. “My lord, there is nothing wrong with being a spinster or a wallflower, and there is certainly nothing wrong with drinking lemonade, not even at a ball.”
For the briefest of seconds, his eyes narrowed into two dark slits, but it happened so quickly and was rapidly replaced by the most understanding expression, that she wondered if she’d imagined the anger she’d seen there. Her doubts only grew when he said, “Please forgive me. I only mean for you to enjoy the evening as much as possible. If lemonade is what you prefer, then by all means . . .” Lifting the jug, he proceeded to fill a glass for her.
“As to the question I was going to ask you before,” Mary said as soon as he’d handed her the glass and she’d allowed herself a sip.
“Yes?”
“Why your sudden interest in me?”
Rotridge went completely still for a moment, his glass of champagne halting en route to his mouth. But then it passed, he sipped his drink, and smiled benignly. “As I said, it took me a while to realize how grown up you are now, perhaps because you never seemed interested in encouraging the attentions of any gentleman. So while I have noticed your attendance at various balls, I also believed you were out of my reach—that asking you to dance would have been a wasted effort.”
“Out of your reach?” The man was either mad or lying through his sparkly white teeth. “But you are an earl, my lord. I would have been a fool not to consider you if you had shown an interest.”
“You say so now, but I can assure you that I have known plenty of women who wish to cling to their independence. I suppose I assumed that you shared their sentiment based on your lack of effort.”
Mary’s mouth dropped. “My lack of effort?”
“Until tonight of course. Tonight you have clearly proven that you are ready to consider a courtship.”
“I . . .” She could scarcely speak, she was so shocked by his presumptuousness. Swallowing the anger that simmered inside her, Mary tried to concentrate on slow and steady breaths. “You are entirely mistaken, my lord, for I consider my independence to be my greatest asset. Consequently, I am no more eager to lose it through marriage
now than I was yesterday.”
“Your choice of gown and your long flowing hair say otherwise.”
Mary shook her head. “Why would you suppose such a thing?”
Tilting his head, he grinned down at her. “Come now, my lady, there is no need for you to play games with me.”
“I can assure you that I am not trying to do so.”
Frowning, he studied her a moment. “Are you not aware that by wearing not only the plainest gown but the only gown cut in this particular style . . .” he waved his hand in her general direction, “you have made yourself the center of attention? Additionally, you are also the only lady here tonight who has chosen not to dress her hair.”
“Only because doing so would not have suited my costume,” Mary said as she looked around. When Lady Duncaster had announced the upcoming masquerade two weeks earlier, Mary had leapt at the opportunity to order a gown inspired by the beautiful painting of Eleanor of Aquitaine that hung in her bedroom. Not once had she considered that all the other women would choose to dress as though they belonged at Louis the Thirteenth’s court. “I did not realize that there would be a theme,” she said, more aware of herself than ever before.
“Lady Duncaster did mention it when she announced the ball.”
Mary nodded. Her aunt had told her about the ball after Mary had missed the announcement but had neglected to mention the theme until Mary had already ordered her gown. By then, it had been too late for her to order another. “Even so,” she said, determined to return to the more important matter at hand, “the fact remains that you must have gotten the wrong idea. I am not in the market for a husband at present.”
“Then you are a fool,” Rotridge warned as he snatched her glass right out of her hand and set it aside. Before she could manage a protest, he’d taken her by the arm and was steering her toward the dark corner of the terrace. “Independence is a novel idea, but you are a woman and since you are not an heiress, you will need a husband for the sake of security, if nothing else.”
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