by L. V. Lloyd
“That’s no matter!” came the cheerful assurance. “Just put on evening dress and wear a domino mask. That’s what I’ll be doing. I’m sure I’ve got a spare domino here somewhere,” he added, searching through his bags.
Triumphantly, he held up a small black mask, dangling from one finger. “Here you are!”
An hour later, Jonathan was squeezed into the dressing room, pulling on his smartest fawn breeches, in truth, the only good pair he owned. On top, he wore the blue silk shirt and black jacket that Lord D’Anvers had given him, and tied a clean blue cravat around his throat. He brushed his hair until it shone and peered into the looking glass to see what he looked like. He smiled involuntarily. He thought he looked all the crack, if he did say so himself.
He hesitated before opening the door which led straight into Lord D’Anver’s bedchamber. What if his lordship was still dressing? His face went hot at the thought. Well, one thing was certain, he couldn’t stay here all night. Taking a deep breath, he rattled the handle noisily and opened the door.
Lord D’Anvers had his chin in the air, putting the finishing touches to a snow white cravat that was twice the size of the one Jonathan had ventured to use. Except for the cravat, he wore his customary all black. His shirt was fine silk and his boots were polished so that Jonathan could see his face in them. Jonathan held his breath until his lordship finished the last few folds of his perfect creation, and turned to face him.
D’Anvers smiled, then frowned. “You’ve made a mull of that!” he stated. “Come here!”
He drew a fresh white silk cravat out of his own case, then plucked the offending garment from Jonathan’s throat and tossed it on the floor. He took Jonathan firmly by the chin. “Hold still!” he ordered.
Jonathan froze. He could feel D’Anvers’ strong fingers gripping his chin, each pressure point setting a small fire beneath his skin. He felt warm breath caressing his face as D’Anvers concentrated on tying the cravat properly. Their mouths were so close... he could, he could almost...
“There! That’s better.” D’Anvers released him and stepped back with a nod of satisfaction.
Then his expression changed. His eyes widened and his eyebrows rose.
Jonathan swallowed and allowed the domino to drop from his fingers to the floor. Hastily he bent down to retrieve it. What had he nearly done? What had the other man seen in his face? What on earth was he thinking? He had done nothing at all—there was absolutely nothing for Sebastian to see!
By the time he straightened up, D’Anvers had stepped back and was making a point of straightening his sleeves. If he was breathing a little faster than usual, neither man drew attention to it.
Chapter Sixteen
The ancient hackney cab pulled up in the lane, in front of a dark doorway. Jonathan looked across at Lord D’Anvers. Was this the right place? It certainly didn’t appear as if anything was happening inside. Where were the lights? Where were the liveried footmen, standing ready to greet the guests?
But D’Anvers was already getting out of the coach and tossing a coin up to the driver. This was evidently their destination. Jonathan followed him a trifle reluctantly, wondering, not for the first time, what he was letting himself in for.
His lordship strode confidently up to the door and knocked four times. It opened silently, allowing a pale light to shine forth onto the pavement and revealing the outline of a thickset man dressed in grey. Jonathan saw a face which had evidently taken a few hard knocks in its time; the nose was flattened and an ugly scar crossed the man’s forehead from his hairline to his left eyebrow. He resembled a pugilist far more than a footman.
Lord D’Anvers spoke a few words in a low voice and the fellow stepped back to allow them to enter. Jonathan gave a nervous laugh, if only inside his head. That had sounded for all the world like a secret password, haha. What was this place? He followed his lordship uneasily along a narrow passage and up a flight of steps to where a set of double doors awaited them.
Another man dressed in grey, looking far more like a real footman this time, stood outside the doors and watched their approach. The bruiser who had accompanied them thus far gave a brief nod to the footman, before turning and making his way back downstairs to his post. Silently, the footman opened the doors wide to allow them to enter. Immediately light and noise flooded out into the hallway.
Jonathan saw a large room, filled with men in evening dress, laughing and chattering together in small groups, along with a few who had evidently taken the masquerade more to heart. He could see a Roman soldier and at least two men in togas amongst the guests. A flash of scarlet and gold silk revealed that several women had donned elaborate gowns from a bygone era. Towering grey wigs crowned their heads and jewels flashed at their throats. Shepherdesses mingled with characters from ancient mythology. And everyone who was not more effectively disguised, wore a domino mask.
Branched candelabras lit the room, reflecting light off polished floorboards. Grey liveried servants moved discreetly between the guests with glasses of what looked like champagne, or possibly lemonade for the younger ladies. Soft music played in the background, coming through an open doorway from the room beyond. Presumably that was where the dancing was.
Jonathan smiled in relief, this was more like what he had been expecting.
He followed D’Anvers into the room, scarcely noticing when the footman closed the doors behind them.
D’Anvers moved between the groups of men, heading for the room beyond where violins were playing a cotillion. “You may want to stay close to me.” He tossed over his shoulder, rather confusingly.
Jonathan was looking at D’Anvers, waiting for an explanation when he was approached by one of the women wearing a grey pompadour wig and a scarlet gown. A rather large hand reached out to rest lightly on his arm.
“May I have the pleasure of this dance?” she asked in a husky voice.
Jonathan turned to look at her in startled surprise. Surely, customs were not that different in London? At home, no woman would dream of approaching a strange man without an introduction, and not even then, unless they were well known to each other.
“I’m sorry, Miss,” his mouth was uttering a polite refusal before his eyes had even registered the fact that the woman before him was certainly well beyond the first flush of youth. “Er, madam—uh—” he broke off in dismay as his brain continued to process what his eyes were seeing. This was either the ugliest woman he had ever seen... or he stared at the harsh features beneath the white powder... it wasn’t a woman at all.
She, or more probably, he, raised a fan to her face and peered provocatively over it.
Jonathan swallowed convulsively. He turned automatically to Lord D’Anvers for assistance and was met by eyes brimming with mischief above a polite smile. Jonathan bit his lip and turned away, the hot colour flaring on his cheekbones. Damn him! He had done this on purpose! Deliberately taken him to this private club, a club where men could act out their... fantasies. Probably hoping he would cling to his side all night for protection.
He took a deep breath. He refused to give D’Anvers the satisfaction. He would sit and listen to the music and refuse all offers to dance with cool politeness. He would stay for half an hour, just to show D’Anvers he wasn’t intimidated, and then he would leave. Take a cab back to the hotel by himself if necessary.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t dance,” he told the creature in the scarlet dress and strode past her into the ballroom. He grabbed a glass of champagne on his way and made straight for an empty chair he could see on the other side of the room, near the musicians. He sat down and took a hearty gulp of his drink, trying to settle his jangled nerves.
Lord D’Anvers eyes followed him with a mixture of surprise and regretful amusement. He pursed his lips, that hadn’t gone as expected. Damn! He looked around at the other guests, his gaze landing on a young man wearing a Roman gladiator’s costume which displayed his naked chest. A brief question and the next moment D’Anvers was leading hi
s new partner into the dance. Perhaps he could make Jonathan jealous.
Jonathan sat sipping his champagne, his eyes sliding over the dancers, deliberately avoiding Lord D’Anvers. If he wanted to dance with a half-naked man that was no concern of his. Were there any women here at all? He amused himself by trying to guess. He got a small shock when he realised that two of the slender men in evening dress, dancing together, were actually women. He blinked and snagged another glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
Then he saw a young woman, a girl really, sitting on the other side of the room, watching the dancers. She wore a pale pink muslin gown, with her brown hair dressed in soft ringlets. She had a pretty, round face and Jonathan was as sure as he could be that she was female. Without giving himself time for second thoughts, Jonathan was on his feet and crossing the room toward her.
Chapter Seventeen
In normal circumstances, a young lady attending a ball would be fiercely guarded by a female relative but this was certainly not a normal ball. Jonathan looked around but no-one seemed to be paying them any attention. He couldn’t help wondering what on earth the girl was doing here.
The girl smiled up at him, a trifle nervously he thought.
Jonathan bowed. “Jonathan Winter, at your service, Miss—?” He broke off invitingly.
“Fredericka Murray,” she answered in a soft deep voice. Had there been a slight pause before the ‘a’ was added to the end of her name? Suddenly suspicious, Jonathan took a closer look. Her skin was soft and smooth around her chin, a bare hint of an Adam’s apple in her slender throat.
To his considerable dismay, he couldn’t tell for certain, but he had a sinking feeling he was talking to a very feminine young man.
She, or possibly he, dropped their eyes demurely, a faint blush rising on her cheeks as he continued to stare.
Jonathan was frantically trying to think of a polite way to disengage when he heard the sounds of someone approaching from behind him. Fredericka looked up, her eyes widening in dismay as she saw who was coming. Her slender hands gripped each other tightly in her lap and Jonathan turned, to see a tall stranger just behind him. The man was in evening dress, with thick blond hair brushed back from his forehead and a cruel smile on his thin lips. “There you are, my pretty one,” he was saying, ignoring Jonathan completely.
Male or female, Jonathan’s chivalry rose to the fore. It was evident to even the most casual observer that this man was frightening Fredericka.
He bowed again. “May I have the pleasure of this dance?” The words were out before he had really thought.
Fredericka rose quickly, putting her hand in his. “Yes, thank you, sir,” she murmured softly.
The stranger glared at both of them and for a moment Jonathan thought he was going to protest. But he merely bowed his head in the briefest acknowledgement. “Later, then,” he said, looking at Fredericka.
Jonathan led his partner out onto the dance floor, sparing a moment to be grateful that it was a country dance, and not the newfangled waltz where partners had to hold each other in their arms.
It was customary to engage in polite conversion during the dance, but for the life of him, Jonathan couldn’t think of anything to say. He could hardly blurt out what was uppermost in his mind. Who was that man, why does he scare you, and by the way are you a man or a woman?
Instead he fell back on platitudes, asking Fredericka about what she had seen so far of London. After a few awkward moments, they were soon chatting quite safely about the rival charms of St Paul’s Cathedral and Westminster Abbey.
Lord D’Anvers observed them from the other side of the room, unaware that a frown was gathering on his brow. He had been amused at first, watching Jonathan’s advances, waiting for him to realise the truth. No-one had been more surprised than he when Jonathan asked the girl-boy to dance. The frown deepened as he watched them chat and smile at each other. He wasn’t jealous of course, that would be beneath him, but he had to admit he didn’t like it. Jonathan was his, goddamn it!
“Yours?” asked a silky voice in his ear, echoing his thoughts uncannily.
D’Anvers turned slightly, instantly recognising the tall man who had come up beside him unnoticed. He was one of the few who had not bothered with a mask.
“Silverwood,” he greeted the man with a tiny nod. He knew Silverwood more by reputation than personally. From the gossip he had heard, he was not someone who he would welcome as a friend. He felt a brief twinge of pity for the youngster Silverwood had his eye on, but he didn’t want the man’s attention turning to Jonathan.
“Mine,” he agreed, staking his claim firmly.
Both men watched as the dance ended and the musicians struck up a waltz. But instead of returning to their seats, the young couple stayed on the dance floor, Jonathan taking Fredericka into his arms and twirling her round the room as if he had been practising for years. It was a perfect moment for a private conversation and Jonathan didn’t waste any time. “Who is that man? You seemed unhappy to see him,” he phrased delicately.
For a minute he thought Fredericka wasn’t going to answer him. He heard a soft sigh then she murmured. “Lord Silverwood. My guardian.” It was the last answer Jonathan had expected. “I’m an orphan. My parents died of fever when I was quite young, and I went to live with my uncle in the country, near Lord Silverwood’s estate. All was well, until my uncle died last year and I discovered he had gambling debts.” She broke off and concentrated on her steps for a few minutes.
Jonathan waited silently, hoping she would continue her story. Encouraged by the kind interest in his eyes, Fredericka spoke again. “You can imagine my dismay when I found myself destitute, I didn’t know which way to turn. Then Lord Silverwood came to see me, he told me he was a friend of my uncle’s and offered to settle the debts and give me a home. At first it seemed as if all my prayers had been answered.”
She came to a sudden halt, as if realising she was telling too much to a stranger. “Still, I shouldn’t complain,” she stated briskly, her confidences at an end. “I have a roof over my head, enough to eat... what more could I want?”
The next moment, he felt a tap on the shoulder. “My dance now, I think,” said Lord D’Anvers in a decisive tone.
Jonathan relinquished Fredericka with reluctance. He felt there was more to her story, a darker side than she had yet told him. He hoped D’Anvers was going to be gentle with her, but his lordship wasn’t after Fredericka.
He put his strong arms around Jonathan and swept him into the dance before he could protest. Jonathan stumbled for a couple of steps, trying to adjust to the change of position. He felt a firm hand in the middle of his back steadying him, then pressing him close, far closer than he had held Fredericka. Their hips were pressed against each other and Jonathan could feel that D’Anvers was already half aroused.
He tried, unsuccessfully, to draw back a fraction but D’Anvers only held him tighter. He smiled down at him. “Enjoying yourself?” he teased. “I never realised a waltz could be so... exciting. I can see this becoming my favourite dance.”
He was waiting for Jonathan to pull away, but to his astonished delight, Jonathan stayed in his arms. D’Anvers felt a rush of excitement flood through his entire body; was Jonathan starting to return his feelings?
Then he realised that Jonathan was looking anxiously over his shoulder at Fredericka, who was now in the tight grip of Lord Silverwood.
Chapter Eighteen
Lord D’Anvers’ grip tightened involuntarily on Jonathan’s hand as he swung him around so that his back was now toward the other couple.
He opened his mouth to say something scathing when Jonathan pre-empted him.
“Is that man a friend of yours?” he asked, looking up at his lordship with narrowed eyes.
“An acquaintance, merely,” D’Anvers answered, annoyed to find himself on the defensive.
“Why is Fredericka afraid of him?” Jonathan persisted.
“I haven’t the least idea,” D’Anve
rs said quellingly. “Now can we forget about them and concentrate on us for a moment?”
He regretted his words a second later, as he saw Jonathan realise that he was still dancing in his, Sebastian’s arms. Jonathan pulled violently away, just as the music stopped. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted, thought his lordship. Jonathan had stayed in his arms far longer than he had expected, perhaps he was starting to respond to the attraction between them, even if he was still refusing to admit it.
Suddenly he wished they were back in the hotel room, where he could take Jonathan in his arms again, and press kisses onto his reluctant lips until he admitted he wanted him and surrendered...
In the background, Jonathan could see Lord Silverwood ushering a shrinking Fredericka out of the ballroom. He wanted to do something to help Fredericka but he couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t cause a huge scene and possibly a scandal as well. It was hardly as if he could take her home with them.
Jonathan had had enough. “I think it’s time for me to go back to the hotel,” he declared, trying to sound decisive and not sulky.
“All right then,” agreed Lord’D’Anvers, to Jonathan’s surprise. His lordship felt unaccountably depressed. Nothing had gone as he had hoped this evening. Jonathan hadn’t needed or sought his protection, and as far as he could tell, he was the only one who had felt so much as a twinge of jealousy. Perhaps he was merely fooling himself, thinking that Jonathan might want him in return.
Jonathan led the way out and paused for a moment in the doorway, his attention caught by Lord Silverwood pulling Frederick along the lane toward a hackney. Jonathan could see she was struggling to keep her footing on the cobblestones but evidently Silverwood thought she was being deliberately obstructive. With no warning, he struck her a violent blow across the face, making her stumble sideways.
Without a second thought, Jonathan rushed forward. He didn’t even hear Lord D’Anvers mutter an uncomfortable, “None of our business.”