SOPHIE STOOD AT the entrance to the ballroom, her mouth dry and her heart pounding, her silk shawl clutched over the gown beneath. The masque was another world.
Sophie had been to a few balls this season, though she’d never danced. At other times, she’d thought the array of pale gowns and dark surcoats a pretty picture, gently lighted by gracious chandeliers of sparkling crystal—all very civilized and restrained.
It was nothing compared to the riot of opulence and excess unleashed by the lax rules of the masque.
Lementeur had warned her. “In costume, a virtuous woman can be a whore and a whore can be a princess.”
It seemed as though there were a lot of virtuous women here tonight. Bodices were tighter, necklines lower, ankles—clad in stockings so fine as to be barely there—flashed coquettishly from beneath gowns that clung damply to curves rather than concealed them.
A wave of heat struck Sophie’s face as she stood in the shadows just outside the doors. The clashing brilliance and gasping riot was already in full force. How was she supposed to make any sort of impression in this room full of luxury and vibrance?
Then she recalled that she was not supposed to be seeing any of this. Turning to one side, she slipped her spectacles off her nose and donned her mask. Then, taking a breath, she willed her feet to move forward. One step, then another. She longed for the concealing cloak she’d relinquished to a footman. She would rather yet have been back in Lementeur’s confection of a carriage, speeding off into the night.
You asked for this. To be perfectly accurate, you begged for it.
Recalling that, she felt her heart slow its fleeing-deer pace a bit. This was not something that was being forced upon her—she had made this night happen out of sheer will.
A new sense of power and purpose infused her. She wasn’t here to shy away—to hide—to be plain Sophie the Stick anymore.
She’d come here tonight to be Sofia.
Slowly her right hand lifted and with a precise flick of her wrist, she opened her fan with one graceful motion. There.
A secret smile grew on her lips. Sofia had arrived.
Chin high, stomach trembling, shawl draping artfully off her bare shoulders, she glided down the stairs into the grand ballroom. If anyone were to ask, Tessa would have conveniently stepped out for some air.
According to Lementeur’s instructions, she avoided furniture and pillars and potted palms. One could not trip over something if it wasn’t there, after all.
She kept to the open for all to see—thank heaven that the world blurred to insignificance without her spectacles, so that she could not see except for the few faces closest to her. Actually, it was rather comforting.
Just as instructed, she made one languid meandering circle through the ballroom, her expression conveying the very height of haughty boredom.
Then she chose a spot well lighted and very public to hold court. For a long moment, her will wavered. Why should anyone speak to her? She would be thrown into the street and declared a fraud!
However, Lementeur had powerful friends, just as he’d promised. Gentleman after gentleman came to her, their deliciously gowned ladies in tow, to greet her as if they’d known her for years. Trying valiantly not to squint, she played along, greeting each memorized face with the proper memorized name, fighting back the trembling in her voice.
Important names, some so high that she’d suspected Lementeur of teasing her. Yet here they were—Reardon, Wyndham, Etheridge, Greenleigh—the count went on, each man handsomer than the last, each lady more gracious and beautiful.
If Sophie hadn’t known what a mummery it all was, she would have been mightily impressed with her own importance! The exalted names passed through the queue, then returned moments later accompanied by eager young aristocrats who had begged introductions.
It was all a ridiculous lie and yet so easy. Sophie wondered why someone hadn’t done this years ago. Then it struck her that people might be doing it all around her. Why, half the people in this room might have entered Society as frauds!
Of course, there was nothing new about her connection to the name of Brookhaven, but her presentation suddenly sounded more impressive.
So she accepted introduction after introduction, not really caring if she remembered most of them, for they were a lot of silly boys for the most part. Lementeur had told her not to show interest in anyone at all, for it would reveal her to be susceptible.
“Tonight is simply the first call of the hunt, my dear,” he’d impressed upon her. “You must be the fleetest, most difficult doe to ever lead the hounds. Remember, easily caught, easily forgotten.”
Lementeur had kept his promise. She appeared to be an arresting beauty, she was surrounded by admiring men and Society was eagerly agog.
He’d been right about one other thing as well.
Once her grand entrance had been accomplished, Sophie found that she wasn’t just pretending ennui—she truly was bored out of her tiny little mind.
Chapter Ten
At the far end of the ballroom, where the unattached gentlemen tended to congregate near the smoking and card rooms, Graham tossed back another glass of Lord Waverly’s flat, warm champagne. It tasted like hell, but if he drank enough of it, perhaps he could find his old self floating in it.
What was the matter with him? For the first time in his life, he had nothing to say to the group of rowdies he’d once called his friends.
He had nothing to say to any of the insipid, empty-headed women in the room either. His golden tongue had deserted him, his charm had fled. He was . . . he was . . . he was brooding!
God, why now? Why did he have to become an adult now, when he needed his boyish glibness the most?
Beside him, though he’d intentionally put a few steps of distance between, one of his former friends guffawed, spraying another with a mouthful of champagne. Once upon a time, Graham would have laughed, or at least dryly ribbed the dripping man.
Now he only wanted to grab the both of them by the collar and shake some sense into them.
Stop wasting time! Stop abandoning the people who need you!
Stop behaving like me!
However, he was here for another purpose. Dutifully, Graham took another glass of champagne from the tray of a passing servant. If he had to be drunk to find a bride, then he would get drunk and stay that way until his wedding day!
A third fellow joined them. Graham barely noticed, except that the man’s excitement made his voice louder than the others’.
“Lads, I’m in love!”
Since said former friend fell in love on a monthly basis, Graham ignored him. The champagne lay flat and nasty in his gut. Perhaps he ought to find something to eat.
Muttering escalated into arguing. “Edencourt could do it, couldn’t he?”
Hearing his new name startled him out of the contemplation of his nausea and he found his attention reluctantly drawn. “Could do what?”
“He can’t. No one can. She’s as cool as a winter lake.”
“Edencourt, you have to see her. She’s a lovely creature, like a gazelle. So refined. I hear she hasn’t smiled once all evening.”
Graham grimaced, already sorry he’d joined in. “Perhaps she’s simply too dim to see the joke.”
The three of them stared at him without comprehension. Right.
He sighed. They wanted him to go forth and conquer, as in the old days, so they could live vicariously through his success.
He opened his mouth to refuse the challenge. Instead, he heard himself ask, “Is she rich?”
The others smirked. “She’s well connected and superbly dressed. I heard one of the ladies say it was the finest Lementeur gown she’d ever seen.”
So she was wealthy. With a sigh, Graham disposed of his revolting champagne into a palm and dusted off his hands.
“I suppose I’ll go beg an introduction, then.”
The group parted to let him through, admiring acolytes ready to learn from the master.
>
Graham couldn’t believe that he’d actually cultivated such a group of useless people. Had they no pride? No dreams? No ambitions?
Sophie had been so right about him. You’d know that if you ever did anything with your mind other than waste it.
Thinking about Sophie only worsened his mood. She was acting strangely, always off busy doing something, making him wait on her.
He missed the days when she’d been simply there, when he’d turned toward Primrose Street after becoming jaded with the ton, knowing that when he walked into that parlor he would find a cheery fire and cigars and brandy, and Sophie to listen and ask all the right questions and pierce his meandering thoughts with a pointed barb of perfect sense.
Thinking of Sophie, he almost didn’t see the new femme fatale. Then he realized that it was because she was surrounded. God, the blokes were three deep and more were on their way! All Graham could see from where he stood was a long, elegant neck, bare white shoulders and a shimmering fringe of red-gold curls, topped with intricately twisted tresses set with pearls.
She was a tall one, that was for sure. Graham did prefer a taller sort, for he always felt ridiculous dancing with someone who was forced to stare at his waistcoat buttons.
The crowd was thicker before her, so Graham sidled up to the rear guard. With a stomp on an instep—“Oh, dear, was that me?”—and an elbow in some ribs—“So sorry, bit too much champagne, I think”—he was behind the woman, nearly close enough to kiss the back of that stunning neck.
In her astonishing gown, she gleamed like a pearl from the sea, simply lovely amidst the clashing riot of color adorning everyone else. Like a chilled sip of wine after being trapped in a crowded, sweaty, smoky ballroom . . . like this one.
Her head was tilted slightly, so he could see the turn of her high cheekbone and long, auburn lashes. She seemed to be listening to some stout fellow who burbled outlandish praise. “And the moon’th light will catht a fainter glow now that thuch an ekthquithite creature hath joined our fine athemblage—”
“Superb prose.” Graham laughed softly. “Or should I say, ‘thuperb’?”
Graham. When Sophie heard the voice, felt the warm whisper on the back of her neck—where no gentleman should feel free to be—her knees weakened. With fear, or anticipation?
A bit of both. Wild thoughts chased through her mind. Should she run away? Did he already know it was her? He was flirting, but then, Graham would flirt with a lamppost if he was bored enough.
Should she spin about and shout “Surprise!”?
Frozen with indecision, she did nothing. Before her, several young men were talking, all vying for her attention, but their combined chatter faded to a cricket’s chirp while Graham stood behind her, so close she could feel the heat of him against her bare upper back.
Still, what was he thinking? It was rude of him to crowd a lady so, rude and bold and undeniably charming—if one were here to be charmed by rogues.
Which she was not.
Graham was quick, but even he nearly lost an eye when the lady’s fan was flicked over her shoulder. Ducking the lethal thing lost him his place in the crowd, but it forced a smile and a spark of interest from him as well. This one was no cringing flower! Nor was she one to tolerate his admittedly discourteous behavior. With a grin, he dove back into the fray, this time in a frontal attack that left him with sore ribs and a place facing her. He bowed playfully. “Pray, my lady, tell me where a knight might win the favor of an introduction?”
She wore a half-mask, a thing of fantasy and dreams that left her enormous eyes free to send scathing sparks in his direction. “I thought I’d left you wounded in my dust.” Her voice was low and husky, yet tantalizingly . . . familiar? Her lips pursed. “How disappointing.”
With another deadly flick of her fan between them, she turned away to speak to a fellow at her side. Graham found that the circle turned with her, leaving him to the rear once again.
So that’s the way she wanted to play it, hmm? Graham let the crowd slide around him, leaving him standing alone, his brow creased in thought over his own brief domino mask. A woman like that, clever and proud, required that he adhere to all the proprieties.
He smiled slightly, anticipating her reaction when she heard his title announced. He hurried off, not realizing that this was the first time he was happy about the legacy he’d been left with.
Following the throng, he grabbed one of the trailing, kowtowing suitors by the arm and pulled him away from the throng.
“Oy!” The fellow, whose name, if Graham recalled correctly, was Somers Boothe-Jamison and who wore the garb of a harlequin, gave Graham a protesting push. “You’ve made me lose my place!” Then he realized who he was shoving. “Oh. Hello, Lord Edencourt. I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”
“Somers, you sat on me and shoved sand up my nose first year. I think we’re beyond ‘Your Grace,’ don’t you?”
Boothe-Jamison, who was actually an all-right fellow, just not inclined toward interesting and imaginative trouble-making, gave a rueful grin. “Well, you know how some fellows can get, once the title lands on them.”
Graham tilted his head toward the mob behind them. “Are you officially acquainted with the new temptation?”
Boothe-Jamison drew himself up. “I am. In fact, I’m an old friend of the family. Remember Lord Raphael Marbrook? She’s related.”
Graham frowned. “What? I’ve never heard they had any more cousins.” And he would know. Good God, he’d spent half the Season hanging about Brook House! Sophie would have told him if there were any more family visiting—
An eerie feeling started on the back of Graham’s neck. He passed his palm over his nape. No. That was ridiculous. He looked over his shoulder at the girl in the midst of the crowd.
And remembered that when he’d stood behind her, she’d smelled surprisingly good. Like sensible soap and warm skin and incorruptibility . . .
He grabbed Somers by the arm. “Introduce me,” he said through a hardened jaw.
This time—perhaps it was his rank or perhaps it was the homicidal glint in his eye—the sea of backs clad in all the colors of the rainbow parted before him, no stomping or elbowing needed. Somers took him right up to the girl, who was turned away, listening to another round of shameless flattery.
Somers started in with the usual forms of address, all very correct, but Graham wasn’t listening. He was looking at her delicate collarbones, the turn of her jaw, the pile of silken hair that needed no feathered ornament or grand turban to be luxurious.
No.
“—may I present Miss Sofia Blake, Your Grace?”
It can’t be.
She turned slowly. He watched every movement, for time had slowed madly. He saw the way she drew a deep breath, he saw her swallow, her elegant throat betraying her nervousness. He saw her straighten so that when she raised her gaze to his at last, her eyes were nearly on a level with his own. Her eyes . . .
“Hello, Graham.”
Graham felt as though he’d been kicked by a horse somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. The breath left his lungs and he felt his thoughts slow, able only to gaze helplessly at her.
Sophie. His Sophie. His funny, awkward companion and friend—transformed to the ethereal beauty who stood before him?
Sophie waited, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but wait for her heart to start beating again.
Would he see her now? Would he think she was beautiful? Would he laugh at her, ask her what the hell she thought she was playing at? Would he care at all?
He was staring at her, his expression still frozen in shock, his eyes fiercely green and bright—but with what? Humor? Disdain? Something else that she’d sworn she wasn’t going to hope for?
“Oh, you two have already met?” The fellow who’d introduced Graham was talking. She didn’t care. But then the jostling admirers began to close in, some protesting Graham’s advantage, some clamoring for her attention.
Graham blinked. Then he glan
ced around at the throng around them. His gaze returned to hers and he tilted his head toward the dance floor with one brow raised.
Waltz?
She heard it as clearly as if he’d shouted it. Not the most elegant of requests, but she was dying to get away from the cursed admirers anyway. She quirked her lips.
About bloody time.
He bowed deeply, a dashing figure who suddenly looked every inch the Duke of Edencourt. Sophie curtseyed effortlessly, suddenly wondering why she’d had so much trouble with the gesture just days ago.
Then she laid her gloved hand on his arm and glided through the wide-eyed suitors—for she’d refused to dance with any of them, no matter how prettily they begged—and into the waltz as if they’d begun dancing before they’d even come through the door.
Graham’s warm hand on her waist. His eyes gleaming at her with what looked—yes, definitely!—like approval.
For one delicious sweep around the floor they did not speak. Graham could not take his eyes off her face. Had her eyes always been so large and beguiling behind her spectacles? How could he—who could spot a pretty girl from a half-mile away!—spent so many hours with Sophie and never seen this woman?
“Sofia?”
She smiled slightly. Had her lips always been so sweetly curved? “Lementeur’s idea. I think it worked on me as least as well as it did on the slavering pack.”
Graham returned the smile, his tinged with wonder. “A new name, a new woman?” Still, he frowned slightly. “All this to gain Society’s attention?”
Her chin lifted. “Why not? Don’t you think I can accomplish it?”
He smiled at her appreciatively, his teeth flashing in his tanned face. “I think you can do anything you wish. If you decided to become queen, I’d simply cheer you on—and warn everyone else to get out of your way!” He shook his head. “I’ll admit, I’m relieved to find that this is what you’ve been up to. How long has this been going on?”
She hesitated. “Oh, well . . . I’ve been a bit at loose ends since Phoebe and Deirdre left London.”
Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 03] Page 9