While her sisters were off at this soirée or that tea salon, Camellia escaped to her favorite private stretch of land deep in the undeveloped section of Hyde Park’s many acres, where she loved to climb up on her favorite rock and listen to the sound of the river.
She supposed she felt about the rippling water and the countless leaves overhead the way the man at her side felt about the stars. Sometimes, feeling small, feeling insignificant, actually made her feel more connected to the universe. Everything played its part, and gave her the strength to play hers.
“I don’t blame you,” she said. “I see how a masquerade could be… freeing.”
He stared at her in silence for a moment, as if debating whether to speak. “Would you think me foolish if I told you that only when I’m disguised beneath a mask, can I ever truly be myself?”
“I would think you looked inside my own heart,” she answered matter-of-factly.
Was she ever truly herself? Or was she always Camellia, the good girl, the wallflower, the dutiful daughter? She bit her lip at her own uncertainty. Was she boringly good because she wanted to be? Or simply because no one expected anything else from her?
She suddenly wished he hadn’t merely pretended to want to kiss her. It would have been her first time. She might have liked the experience. With him, anyway. Her skin warmed. There would have been no strings, no scandal, no expectation of marriage. Just a kiss between two people who shared a brief connection beneath the stars.
He was right. Her mask was more than artistic blue feathers. It was freedom. For as long as she was wearing it, she would do and say as she pleased. And if he changed his mind about wanting to kiss her, decided to ask again…
Tonight, she’d let him.
Chapter Four
From behind the black-feathered mask keeping his identity safe, Michael gazed at the enchanting woman at his side.
She had thus far surprised him at every turn. That in itself was rare. Most of the females who attended the duke’s masquerade balls fell into one of two categories.
The first type were the courtesans and demimondaines who had earned their fame and fortunes by dangling their sexuality before men who were more than eager to avail themselves of sensual favors.
The second type were the widows and dowagers and bored countesses and brazen debutantes who wished to play at being world-weary sensual creatures. A flirtatious dalliance, an anonymous seduction, or even a debauched night out with their own husbands… It was always a few hours’ escapade to pretend to be someone they were not.
Not to finally be who they actually were.
Michael had never before admitted that the real reason he came to the masquerades was not for the wine or the women or the salacious possibilities, but because it was the one public place where nothing at all was required or expected of him.
Anywhere else, he was rakish Lord Wainwright, inveterate bachelor, well-heeled earl, accomplished flirt. Even when he was not trying to be any of those things, every word he spoke was interpreted as a double entendre, every glance perceived as an invitation to the bedchamber, every smile a promise of seduction.
Last night’s caricature was proof positive of his predicament. Michael’s friends might find it a merry jest that he need not do anything more than exist at the periphery of a gaggle of maidens for them to tumble over themselves in a fit of the vapors, but the truth was, such constant on-ness was more than exhausting. It made having an actual conversation with any member of the fairer sex utterly impossible.
Here, it was different. Tonight especially. Michael had not been certain if the man in the Venetian mask had been bothering the woman in blue—some couples enjoyed “meeting” their partner at the masquerade using assumed roles. When he intervened on her behalf… she had hesitated.
Hesitated! He shook his head wryly. Such a thing would have never occurred in a public ballroom with their masks off. Lady X would have swooned into his open arms, followed by—no, not even that. His smile was self-mocking. Without his mask, he wouldn’t have been able to rescue anyone. They would never have spoken.
The moment he walked into a room, he changed its makeup with his mere presence. The blackguards would wait until he quit the chamber before resuming their unwanted advances. The sillier debutantes would grapple for their smelling salts and the more experienced women would flutter coquettish eyes at him over their painted fans to broadcast their interest.
The woman in blue had done none of those things. She had gone with him because he was the lesser evil, not because he possessed a title or a bottomless pocketbook or a handsome face. She didn’t even know if he had a handsome face, because a winged black mask covered the top half of it.
Nor had she left, now that she was here. There was a moment where he’d thought she might fly away. When he’d taken his seat and she had not taken hers. When she’d told him no, she was not particularly interested in him ravishing her. She was the first woman to have ever said no. Yet she’d stayed.
His world was upside down.
Everyone who entered these doors did so for wanton reasons. Perhaps they were here with a spouse, or to cuckold one, or perhaps they sought adventure, or a break in a long line of paid assignations. Here, he might not be the infamous Lord Wainwright, but he was still a man, and that was often the sum of the attending ladies’ requirements.
Inside or outside these walls, these women didn’t care about him. They cared about what he could give them. Those who knew his name were after anything from a waltz to the role of countess. Those who knew him only as Lord X simply wished for a night of mutual pleasure.
Up until now, it had been enough. He had wanted the same things. To be able to indulge desires without involving banns and vicars. This was the place.
One of a masquerade’s many advantages was that there were no “innocents” present. Michael had unquestionably earned his rakehell reputation, but he had never despoiled any virgins. All of his conquests had been experienced women who loved the thrill of the chase as much as he did.
So what had brought the lady in blue to such a soirée? He turned toward her.
“Do you come here often?” He tried not to display how interested he was in the answer. In everything about her.
She touched one of her earrings and shook her head. “This is my first time.”
Good. He was pleased that he had also been the first to whisk her away. It felt like he’d been given a treat. Secret access to a special delicacy, one that no one else even knew existed.
“Tell me about yourself,” he urged impulsively. He shouldn’t have. The question wasn’t the same as the forbidden “What’s your name?” but it was dangerous enough that they were both better off if she didn’t answer. Yet he wished she would.
She sidestepped the question. “With your love of music, I imagine you must be a patron of the arts.”
Ah. His complaint about how tough it was to be a rich, popular earl. Michael had felt embarrassed even saying the words. “I try to be.”
He was fortunate. He knew he was fortunate. What was there to complain about? Other men wished they had Michael’s problems. Too many women, too much money, an earldom. What they didn’t realize was how often he wished he had their problems.
Lord Hawkridge might be penniless, but at least he knew his friends weren’t out for his money. Gideon owned a gaming parlor, not an earldom, but at least he knew women were flirting with him, not his title.
The once-respectable Anthony Fairfax had been reduced to earning his keep as a paid doorkeeper at Lambley’s masquerades, but every night he went home to a wife who loved him. What might that be like?
One should not dwell on the fortunes of others, Michael reminded himself. Especially not tonight. He had found the one person of the entire company who was more interested in keeping her clothes on than taking them off. To her, Lord X possessed more than a body. He also possessed a mind. He should endeavor to use it.
“Do you own a music box?” she asked him.
“Do you?” She leaned forward in obvious interest. “Which ones?”
Exclusively harps, but he could not tell her so without giving away his identity. “Lord Wainwright’s harp room” was almost as scandalous as the duke’s masquerades, and for much the same reason. It was allegedly the site of so much debauchery, a bawdyhouse madam would blush to enter.
Only a few friends had ever even seen Michael’s secret trove of musical instruments, so he was not entirely certain how its existence had become public knowledge—or why something as innocuous as harps had been turned into code for bacchanalia.
There were a few naked angels painted into the fresco on the ceiling, but good God. Sprightly cherubs were a far cry from saturnalia. Nonetheless, collecting harps was not something he could admit to. Not if he wanted the lady in blue to keep treating him like a man, rather than a caricature. Particularly if she’d seen the printed etchings of what the local artists imagined occurred inside Michael’s infamous harp room.
“String instruments,” he said instead, and hoped it would suffice. “I have several.”
She beamed at him. “That is lovely. I love music, too. I assume you play?”
He blinked. No one had ever assumed he played before. Or had any particular talent outside of the bedchamber. No one cared to know about his love of travel, of nature, of the stars. For the first time… someone was interested in him as a person.
Unfortunately, in this particular case, the gossiping masses were right. He could not boast musical talent, or even rudimentary knowledge. And he feared his ignorance on the matter would not impress the lady in blue.
“I am afraid I do not play.” The back of his neck heated.
She tilted her head. “Why not?”
“I have never thought of it.”
The answer would not win him any favors, but it was honest. He collected harps for emotional reasons, not musical ones.
His mother had been the one who played. When she’d died, Michael has been unable to part with her collection. The opposite, in fact. He’d begun to add to it. One harp for every year without his parents. In a foolish sort of way, it made him feel as if they were still with him. If only in one room of the house.
The lady in blue leaned back in her chair. “And now that you have thought about it? Playing, I mean?”
He stared back at her. The topic had been broached, but he wouldn’t say he’d thought about it, even now. The harps weren’t his. They were his mother’s. Besides, an earl had no business plinking at harp strings. Not if the earl in question was Lord Wainwright. He could not allow the caricaturists to use his mother’s legacy as fodder for ridicule.
“Inappropriate behavior for a man of my station,” he replied instead.
It was a slightly less honest answer than all the others he’d given her, and he could not help but feel a twinge of shame over how pompous it made him sound. The last thing he wanted was to ruin this moment with Lady X. He was still behind his mask. He could be himself with her. Or at least honest.
So he forced himself to add, “It would cause as much stir as a debutante doubling as an opera singer.”
He’d meant the comparison as a jest.
She didn’t laugh.
He changed the subject to cover his misstep. “Do you have any siblings?”
Her face lit up. No, not her face—her entire manner. As if the very mention of her siblings brightened her world.
“I do,” she said. “Several. They drive me mad, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
He leaned forward. “You’re very close?”
“The best of friends. There’s nothing we wouldn’t do for each other.” She smiled as if recalling a fond memory. “How about you? Do you have any siblings?”
“Not a one,” he admitted. “But you’re making me wish I did. I don’t suppose you have a spare to loan me?”
“I couldn’t bear to part with any of them,” she answered cheerfully. “I am afraid you’ll have to envy me from afar.”
Michael blinked. He hadn’t said he was jealous of her siblings. But the fact that she took for granted that her relationship with them was something worth envying… He tilted toward her. The lady in blue was fascinating indeed.
“You look splendid tonight,” he said presently. It was true. He’d been shamelessly staring for almost an hour, but the moonless night did little to penetrate the shadow of the privacy screen.
He wished he could see her more clearly. There had been more light in the chandelier-filled chamber, but also exponentially more chaos. Before charging in to rescue her, he had glimpsed little more than her dark hair and pink lips. Their flight up the stairs had allowed him to recognize her beauty.
“It’s… a new gown.” She rose to her feet and spun in a circle, as if to display her womanly advantages as much as mock them. “Thank you.”
He smiled, more charmed than he cared to admit. “The blue looks especially fetching on you.”
“Not blue,” she corrected, her voice teasing. “Sapphire. My sister informs me that mere ‘blue’ is dreadfully common.”
“You look like a princess,” he assured her as he rose to his feet to join her. “A somewhat naughty princess with a plunging neckline and a mysterious plumed mask, but unquestionably a princess.”
She burst out laughing. “You’re definitely a prince. Your manners are impeccable. I don’t suppose you have a castle nearby?”
He rather wished he did. “Would you want to go there?”
“No,” she said simply. “I’m enjoying tonight, just as it is. I do not want it to stop.” Her tone turned wistful. “I won’t be back.”
His frown was genuine. “Why not? I thought you were enjoying yourself.”
“I am. But you were right about the roles we’re required to play. I’ll have some new responsibilities in about a month, and will no longer be at liberty to attend soirées.” Her smile was lopsided. “Not even anonymously.”
He leaned forward, suddenly desperate not to lose her. “A month is more time than you might think. The Season is underway, and this time Lambley is holding a masquerade every week rather than every fortnight.” He took her hands in his. “Whatever your responsibilities are, you still have three more opportunities to put on a mask and escape for a few hours.”
Her lips quirked. “I should come back for champagne delivered by court jesters?”
“No,” he said softly. “Come back for me.”
She didn’t remove her hands from his. Instead, she tilted her face up toward him, her expression a mystery behind her silver mask. “I don’t have an invitation.”
He lowered his lips until there was nothing between them but shadow and the promise of far more. “I’ll make certain you get one.”
“How?” She didn’t move away.
He could almost taste the champagne sweetness of her breath. Wished he could taste her lips. Hoped this meant she would return. “I’ll request a special guest invitation and have Lambley notify the doorkeeper. The keyword will be ‘sapphire.’ Like your dress.”
Her tone was light. “You like my gown, then?”
Yes. Worse. Michael was beginning to like the woman inside it even better.
“Say you’ll come,” he demanded. He was blocking the starlight, could no longer see her, but every inch of his body was almost painfully aware of every inch of hers. The scooped neckline he’d admired so much was close enough to brush beneath his cravat. Her skirt swirled against his boots, his thighs. Her lips were close enough to kiss.
“Why should I?” she whispered.
He covered her mouth with his and answered with a kiss. Heat. Heaven. She should come back because they both wanted to. Wanted this. The wind in their hair and the stars overhead. His mouth on hers. Nothing between them but the night. A kiss sweeter than any he’d ever known.
At last, he forced himself to pull away.
“Is that a yes?” he asked, his voice rough with passion.
Rather than reply, she spun out of his arms and slipped behind the painted screen. “See you next time, Lord X.”
“Wait.” He dashed around the divider, but she was nowhere to be seen. Not on the balcony, not behind any of the other screens.
He hurried to the stairs just in time to see a flash of blue slip through an exit leading toward the main road. His throat went dry at the thought of losing her so soon after finding her. With a muttered curse, he raced down the stairs and through the crowd and burst out of the masquerade into the chill, crisp night just as the clocktower bells tolled midnight.
Rows of carriages stretched from one side of the ducal estate to the other. None were in motion. There was no telltale swirl of blue silk, no sign of Lady X anywhere. She had vanished without a trace.
It was as if his princess had disappeared by magic.
Chapter Five
One of the few positive sides to being stuck in a moving carriage with one’s mother and both sisters was that, as the eldest, Camellia’s rank afforded her one half of the coveted front-facing seat. The converse, of course, meant that she had to share that seat with her mother, who could not stop talking about Camellia’s impending marriage to mature, respectable, lonely-country-home-somewhere-near-the-Scottish-border Mr. Bost.
“Have you thought about what you might wear?” Mother chirped. “Puffed sleeves emphasize your youthfulness, but perhaps that is the wrong tack to take with a—”
“Mature?” Camellia asked dryly.
“Respectable?” Dahlia put in.
“Not quite Scottish?” Bryony whispered.
“—gentleman like Mr. Bost.” Mother tapped her chin in deep thought. “Long sleeves, then. The weather’s frightful enough, I daresay you’ll be more comfortable than your sisters.”
“We won’t be wearing long sleeves, too?” asked Dahlia. “Won’t that offend Mr. Bost’s gentlemanly sensibilities?”
It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels Page 110