Who would ever return such stunning shoes? As Livie recalled, the footman who had interrupted her purchase left with his arms piled high. The lady he served was likely as addicted to footwear as she. One glimpse at the orchid slippers and all hope of their return would be lost. Her only expectation of recovery was if the slippers proved the wrong size. Mr Horne hadn’t mentioned the shoe clips. She could only surmise he had no knowledge of them being inside the box. He didn’t seem concerned in the least.
‘Then I won’t dare mention my disappointment.’ Clever the way she was able to continue the conversation though her mind spun in an alternate direction. Perhaps she should venture across the street and into the same shop she’d seen Lord W enter. There was no harm in following the path of curiosity, was there? The memory of their daring waltz stayed with her as if the melody continued. She’d never been so close to a man before. Well, not in the fashion in which he had held her. She found it difficult to assign a label to explain her reaction. Her pulse had leapt, skittered and vibrated during their dance, a series of thoughts and emotions erupting like fireworks in her brain, and his abrupt departure from the hall once he discovered he’d pulled her too close revealed the most significant detail of all.
He’d experienced the same.
‘May I show you something else while you’re here? I have a darling pair of walking boots in byzantine suede and, if they do not suit, you may prefer the high-throated design with black-striped silk and covered heel.’
Huffing a satisfied breath, she dismissed Mr Horne’s suggestion with a waggle of her fingers, her feet already aimed towards the door. ‘Never mind.’ She couldn’t think to explain otherwise and left the shop straightaway, imposing the slightest pause to glance both ways before jetting into the roadway. A little voice reminded her that Dinah waited in the carriage down the street and that she needed to return home to complete her costume for this evening’s masquerade, but the sensible suggestion fell on deaf ears.
Adopting an attitude of fortified determination, she twisted the brass knob and entered the haberdashery with cautious steps and bold ideas. No one was visible, although she could hear the tailors at work in the backroom and a deep, rich voice that instantly identified Lord W as one of the customers being fitted. Lud, she hadn’t thought to note the crest on the carriage door. She needed to do so as she left. For curiosity’s sake, and no other reason. She shifted from one foot to the other. What would Dashwood say if she were discovered in a men’s tailoring parlour? Perhaps the idea wasn’t her smartest. She’d wait one minute, no more. Wilhelmina’s strict reminder that she must protect her reputation above all else rang loud in her ears.
When it became painfully clear Fate would not present Lord W in a serendipitous coincidence and that she would have to summon a clerk by ringing the bell on the counter, Livie backed towards the door, all at once aware of how silly she must appear. Better she left undetected than be caught stuttering at the counter with no real reason to be inside, victim to a damning rumour.
She closed the door with a click and nearly tripped over the same plump, ginger-coloured cat who’d now dropped itself to the floorboards directly outside the haberdashery’s entrance. The creature deemed her worthy of an insolent yowl, although the tabby didn’t move and Livie muttered a complaint, as if the cat would learn a lesson from her sage advice. Shaking her head with exasperation she turned towards her waiting carriage, a little smile twisting her lips. Good heavens, at times she was just as flighty and ridiculous as Whimsy believed her to be. She’d best get home and prepare her costume. It was her first ever masquerade and the possibilities were limitless.
Chapter Six
I’ve never attended a societal event in the city. Have you? I assume they are very crowded and one must dress in one’s finest attire, assert the very best behaviour and remember which spoon to use for the soup. How complicated and utterly fascinating by half. Sometimes I imagine meeting you at a grand gathering. We would share clever conversation and the last dance of the evening. The final waltz is believed to hold unfailing charm for the participants.
Penwick adjusted his ornate mask, the slow roll of carriage wheels an indication his driver inched towards the Dabney estate. Coaches, horses and servants clogged the hawthorn-lined gravel drive, the sides flanked by acreage which stretched farther than he could see from the square window, no matter he’d opened the glass and slanted his head to gain a better vantage point. Instead, brisk night air invaded the interior to remind the season began in earnest. Gone were the extended country parties at quiet pastoral estates where society exercised a more relaxed schedule. Tonight’s affair signalled a frenetic series of events from opera house showings to private family functions, gallery openings and overcrowded ballroom assembles.
The Dabneys represented old money and the elaborate affair they hosted this evening would set a precedent for the ton’s social calendar. He laced his fingers and adjusted his gloves. Strickler had arranged his costume for the masquerade and, with a modification in tolerance, Penwick agreed. He seemed forever cloaked in some type of disguise or another, his true self having fallen into a deep slumber, or worse, become permanently dormant during the time he’d assumed the earldom and rearranged his life. Perhaps Strickler sensed this disquiet. The servant had arranged a lion creation and matching gloves to accompany his gold-threaded waistcoat and jacket. Facing the crowd masked as the king of the jungle suited Penwick.
At last the clink of the handle and clap of wooden steps being extended signalled he’d arrived. He adjusted his gloves, tugging at the hems a final time, and descended from the carriage into a sea of Aesop’s fabled animals. Ahead of him a dove conversed with an ant, alongside the walkway two eagles laughed at a story told by a frog, and near the door a quartet of guests clustered, two owls, a cat and a fox, the backlight of several paper lanterns illuminating the group in a soft, golden glow, as if prominently featured and offset from the others.
The crowd moved with vigorous anticipation towards the huge cherry-wood doors manned on both sides by livery dressed in assigned uniforms, although a plain black mask had been added to complement their navy blue and burgundy attire. At the foot of one of the servants sat a plump ginger cat. It flicked its long tail when each guest passed, as if keeping tally.
Penwick knew Lord Dabney from their association at Boodle’s, though this was the first time he’d visited the estate. The milieu simmered with an ambient hum of conversation and anticipation. The first event of the season produced a flurry, or so Strickler had advised, as the crowded festivities were new, an instant immersion into the vigorous demands of socialising.
With effort, he advanced to the entry and through the foyer, decorated in voluminous drapery of shimmering silver silk, where he again waited, this time a few strides behind the chattering quartet of three ladies and one gentleman he’d noted earlier. Something about the fox sparked a note of familiarity, whether the elegant tilt of her chin or poised steps, as graceful as if she glided across the marble tiles. If he gained a better view, perhaps the illogical perception would make sense. He studied the fox through his mask, all at once content to be hidden by disguise and offered the freedom of curious voyeurism without societal censure.
She wore a golden brocade pelisse trimmed in sable or mink, an expensive fine fur. The same edged a glittering mask of amber silk perched on her delicate nose. Tiny pointed ears were woven into her flowing tresses, every shade of late autumn, and he was reminded of the paperbark maple tree that grew outside his bedroom window at his childhood home. The boughs would turn the warmest shades of brown near the season’s end, and fascinated by the myriad leaves of russet and brown, he’d stare out the window and daydream. This particular memory never failed to comfort and remind of simpler times.
His eyes searched her figure from head to toe and back again.
Realisation came as a direct hit.
Here stood the lady he’d danced with at Monsieur Bournon’s hall, the woman who’d somehow spoke
n to his soul though she remained silent in his arms. A woman composed of tempting sensual suggestion; strictly forbidden to a man eleven days from the altar.
He pivoted, sharp and abrupt, to collide with an elderly man dressed as a stork. Mumbling his apology, he strode towards the nearest set of French doors, away from the continuous flow of partygoers who sought the opening strains of the orchestra’s melody as if entranced. Yet it was he who needed the slap of fresh air provided on the terrace. He inhaled and exhaled twice to cleanse away stray thoughts.
Nature had other plans for the evening and the sky opened with a drenching rain soon after. He’d sought refuge from the front hall, but now forced inside, he escaped the weather but not the rapid fire of suggestions that ricocheted within his brain. Summoning the demeanour of his title and grateful for his disguise, he rejoined the herd as it meandered towards the reverie, and while he forbade himself from seeking the beguiling ears of a heart-stopping beauty, he couldn’t resist sweeping the room with his gaze as soon as he entered the ballroom.
‘The lion is staring at you as if he’s stalking prey on the savannah.’
‘Esme.’ Lavinia adopted her most prudent tone. ‘What a ridiculous suggestion.’ A little thrill shimmied throughout with her friend’s assertion. She bowed her head and peeped the tip of her slipper from beneath her hem to admire the glistening shoe clips like a well-kept secret.
‘I’ve kept a close eye on his behaviour since I stole you away from Whimsy’s strict chaperone. Thank heavens the Dabneys had the sense to invite such a crush. With Dashwood’s dislike of dancing, and our goal of the opposite, we’ve found sanctuary here the ballroom.’ Esme swivelled a demure glance, executing a survey of the surroundings in a manner suggesting she remained oblivious to all, though she examined every detail with a sagacious eye. ‘How curious. He watches you, but does not wish to be known.’
‘You sound like a description from a gothic novel promising suspense, duplicity and intrigue.’ Laughter bubbled inside her. ‘Perhaps he watches you, Esme. I know of no other woman who could dress as a Juniper tree and appear as delicate and refined. Whoever decided to weave those little pearled buds through your hair evinced genius.’
Esme’s slender figure was wrapped in the latest design, a sheath of heather-coloured satin, in imitation of the tall trunk of a juniper tree. A collection of leaves, gauzy and feather-soft, floated around her shoulders to mimic foliage caught in a playful breeze. She looked stunning and her costume caught the eye of every passer-by so Livie couldn’t imagine how her friend managed to assume the lion singled her out. Besides, their dances had been claimed with expedience and only two slots remained on Livie’s card.
‘No, he’s definitely watching you, not me.’ Esme’s insistent whisper brooked no argument. ‘Look at his build. Such a tall, handsome beast given his mask isn’t hiding a long, hideous scar or horrid disfigurement. These masquerades can be tricky.’
‘I’ll never understand how your brain works, but now I know for certain you’ve read too many gothic novels. And please stop staring or the handsome beast will believe you’re inviting his attention.’
‘Too late.’ Esme dared the words in a singsong tone that announced she’d succeeded in her predetermined goal. ‘He cuts a dashing figure in his costume, does he not? King of the jungle, king of the ballroom.’
Livie dared a glance, unable to withhold her curiosity. The lion waited near the hearth, his shoulder against the woodwork, his gloved hands interlaced. If Livie ventured a descriptor, undecided leapt to mind. Lud, Esme had not exaggerated in her assessment of his physique. He looked regal, powerful, and as she snuck another glimpse through her mask, her pulse gave a jolting leap.
He was tall. His broad shoulders near met even with the mantel, the grand fireplace a master of the room, a king on a throne, built to be noticed and command attention, just as this gentleman. His clothes were elegant and aristocratic, yet while expensive they lacked the pretentious frippery so many dandies flaunted. His body appeared all hard muscle and splendid form. She wondered at his preoccupation, for his shoulders filled his coat without help from creative tailoring, no pads or seams to manufacture an outstanding shape. His chest tapered to a lean waist, where the waistband of tight fitted buckskin breeches encased muscular thighs. High boots completed the picture, so shiny they reflected the candlelight on their tips, and she dared a fond smile at the similarity to her shoe clips. Yet he was no dandy. Like the animal he’d chosen, this man represented natural masculinity, uncommonly handsome yet refined and polished like a treasured gemstone coveted by the crown.
Her heart stuttered. Imagine if he truly did admire her? She stole another glance beneath her lashes, behind her spectacles, safely hidden by her mask. Lud, he was more impressive than her most scandalous daydream.
The orchestra began a lively tune and she was startled, not having given due attention to the evening’s entertainment beyond the brick lintol, when Lord Chellins arrived to claim her for the quadrille. He ushered her onto the tiles where, in a desperate attempt to determine where the lion remained, she tossed a glance over her shoulder, but the crowd swelled with the oncoming arrangement and she could not see past a rotund ladybug who took her place in formation to the right.
The guests divided into smaller sets of six and at last the dance began, each lady positioned to face her partner as the first note struck. In less than a heartbeat, the flurry of masked creatures with long capes and elaborate costumes whirled the ballroom into a kaleidoscope of colour. Livie smiled, matching the fancy footwork of Lord Chellins who returned her grin beneath his moss-green grasshopper mask, engrossed in the jig and joviality of the moment. Relieved to be enmeshed in distraction, she launched into the first promenade, her arm linked with Chellins as they circled once before separating and trading partners. The procession would continue until she’d twirled a turn with each of the males in the group.
Somewhere through the logical progression of the dance, a pairing in their assemblage stepped away and a new set of dancers filled the line. A prickle of the tiny hairs on Livie’s nape alerted to the change before her eyes took in the advantage. It was he, the lion by the hearth, and he could dance an impressive reel, no matter his muscular physique defied the graceful fluidity of the movements. His arm swept the air as sharp as a sword blade, and when she found herself traded by Chellins and wrapped in a tight elbow link with the lion, Livie thought she might stop breathing altogether.
‘Have we met before, little fox?’ His rich tenor dallied near her ear though the motion of the dance carried them through a revolution.
It was an excellent question as they hadn’t completed introductions and were partnered out of circumstance, yet seemed aware of each other on an almost intimate level. She couldn’t let the moment pass without the smallest parry.
‘A lion and a fox are unlikely friends, are they not?’ Her casual query whispered close.
He had no time to advance an answer as the steps pulled them apart to circle with other participants in the formation. She was grateful for the reprieve. Her heart beat triple-time to match the severe scolding her better sense warred on her bold flirtation.
Breathless and more than a little thrilled to be dancing once again on sturdy legs, able to depend on her feet to move her into his hold, the wish occurred with miraculous celerity. The exhilarating giddiness, that same bubble of laughter she’d kept contained while considering Esme’s suggestion, gained strength and pushed up from the butterflies reeling in her stomach, past her hesitation and free. Aware she drew stares from the others enjoying the quadrille, she laughed louder, caring not a whit.
Effervescence. The definition explained not the condition, but rather, the epitome of the darling fox who laughed within the dance. She possessed an inner joy that overflowed, causing everyone near to revel in the light she shared. The desire to touch her, stroke his fingertip across her cheek, caress her skin, made him unbearably restless and he missed a step in the formation. Quick to co
rrect, he again clasped her arm to whirl in a circle, the dizzying sensation welcome and at the same time disorienting. What was he doing? How could he experience such visceral emotion when he was bound for marriage in less than two weeks?
Her fragrance wound around him casting a spell, a delicate floral scent he would forever remember, and as he slid a sideways glance to her profile, he noted the brilliant glint of exhilaration in her bright blue eyes as if she kept a precious secret there, the mask too concealing, the yearning to see more of her an urgent thrum in his brain. If he hadn’t identified her by the lovely cascade of hair, he would have known her during the dance, the curve of her waist beneath his palm imprinted from their waltz, no matter his gloves prevented true contact.
The necessary steps forced them to separate and, when he took hold of the next partner, he shifted his focus to the fox with a rationalisation he could claim no foul for attending participation within the dance.
Her hair caught the momentum of her motion, silky strands of fawn, sienna and amber, and for a reason he could not explain an aching knot of tension wrenched his chest. His body tensed. Each muscle tightened. Did she recognise him? Would she remember him from the lesson they’d shared? Did it matter?
Yes.
He’d once lost the opportunity to make a lasting impression, the letters nothing more than memories now. It was important she know it was he. It couldn’t lead to anything. Could never be more than a coincidental encounter, yet the notion the music would end and she not know he partnered her burned like a flame in his soul.
The number approached its finish and with the next exchange he held her for the final revolution. They hadn’t spoken since their initial repartee and, somehow, he knew she was as aware as he of fast-fading opportunity. They twirled to the music, their heads turned in synchronicity, nose to nose, mask to mask, their eyes locked in a heated velvety silence that overrode the buoyant music, louder than the vibrant conversation and spontaneous laughter. He couldn’t drag his gaze from hers. They spoke without words, forged a connection, as if tied by a thread and slowly ravelled closer until time stopped, all else ceased to exist, the scant space between them seemingly cavernous, yet pulsing with arresting heat. At last she released a steadying exhale having waited patiently for the chance to breathe again, no longer able to contain it, the moment too frangible. He inhaled sharply, wanting, if nothing else, a whisper of her all to himself.
His Forbidden Debutante Page 6