by Колин Глисон
“I will,” he replied and stabbed the inkpen into its well, then commenced to writing.
The scratching of pen against paper filled the silence, pausing only as she passed by and fluttered the papers on his desk when she quit the room.
4
Miss Woodmore Waltzes
“Do try to behave with some decorum tonight, Angelica,” Maia said in a low voice as they prepared to disembark from the coach at Sterlinghouse. “Put on a good example for Mirabella.”
Angelica ignored her, moving farther away on the seat they shared so that her sister couldn’t squeeze her arm to emphasize her command.
They sat across from Mirabella and her Aunt Iliana, a nice enough woman who seemed to be forty or fifty years old. Angelica wasn’t certain if she was relieved or disappointed that their chaperone wasn’t one of those vacant-eyed, gossip-mongering old maids or widows often relegated to seeing to the safety and virtue of their charges. Like their own Mrs. Fernfeather.
In fact, she suspected Aunt Iliana might prove to be entertaining and interesting, if the intelligent glint in her bright blue eyes was any indication.
“I don’t believe you have cause for worry tonight,” Angelica whispered back to her sister. “No one will recognize me until we remove our masks, and so until then, all of my behaviors will be anonymous.” She smiled and held up the black velvet mask trimmed with a gold and silver lace fall that would offer only teasing glimpses of her cheeks and mouth. The rest of the mask completely covered her from nose to brow. “You shall have no scandal by association. Even you could do something scandalous, Cleopatra,” she added saucily.
“I certainly would not,” Maia hissed back. “And how many times do I have to tell you, I’m Hatshepsut, not Cleopatra.”
Angelica rolled her eyes. Her sister was such a pedant. “Who cares about Hatshep-whoever? No one could tell the difference anyway.”
But Maia wouldn’t leave it alone. “There’s no asp on my staff,” she replied—as if that explained everything.
Angelica was delighted that Mirabella managed to interrupt. “We’re to don our masks before entering?” There was excitement in her voice, for this was to be her first London event, even though she hadn’t yet been presented at court and her wardrobe needed to be brought up-to-date. Her mask was of ivory silk, completely covered in lace that fell beyond the section around her eyes to her jaw, and rose up to be a stiff fringe higher than her normal hairline. In this case, it didn’t matter, for she wore a wig of white that towered above her crown.
“Yes. We’ll be announced, but not with our real identities,” Maia explained before Aunt Iliana could open her mouth. She held her gold mask in hand, and the royal staff that went with her costume rested across her lap. “Only by our character or costumes.”
Angelica saw the older woman pause, then close her lips and settle back in her seat as if to give free reign to the elder Woodmore girl. She seemed, if not grateful, at least accepting of Maia’s bossy tendencies. Angelica appreciated that, for despite her sister’s overbearing attitude, she loved and admired her and would have felt badly if there was friction between her and the older woman.
“Everyone is to be unmasked at midnight,” Maia continued. “Although last year, the unmasking was much later. No one was ready until nearly one o’clock.”
“We’re here,” Angelica said as she heard the voices of the driver and footman. She moved her flowing skirts out of the way of the other passengers’ feet.
At that moment, the door swung open and the three young women and one older one were helped down.
There was an angel in white lace and an elaborate white wig.
Behind her came a petite bejeweled and bangled Egyptian queen in gold, balancing her staff in hand. She was followed by a ruff-necked Elizabeth in a wide, ungainly gown that took some effort to make it fit through the carriage door.
Last came Atropos, carrying her fateful shears and a skein of sparkling gold thread. Her gold-shot black gown draped in a modified Greek fashion in two swaths, from shoulder to waist, then wrapped around and draped again from waist to foot. The effect was a combination of elegance and sensuality, with the light, glinting cloth molding to the shape of her bosom and hips, yet falling freely to obscure her figure at any given moment.
Her arms were bare but for long black gloves, and she carried a dainty golden reticule for her skein and shears. The gown had camellias fashioned of gold fabric marching along the tops of the gathered shoulders, at the waist where the fabric was caught up, and along the generous hem where it trailed along the ground like a ripple of water. A row of gold flowers also lined the gloves from elbow to knuckle. And, her dark hair had been separated into a multitude of sections, twisted with thick gold cord and pinned high at the crown of her head so that gold and walnut brown curls cascaded down to her neck.
It didn’t take Angelica long to discover that the lace which made up the lower half of her mask tickled her cheeks and upper lip, and she considered tearing the fringe off. But after she entered the masquerade ball, she decided against it.
Tonight, she wished to remain as anonymous as possible. Something like expectancy prickled her, and she felt daring and unencumbered. She didn’t want to be approached by any young brides-to-be, asking for her to prophesy about their future husbands.
Part of the reason was that Angelica still felt unsettled when she recalled the conversation with Dewhurst—no, she would think of him as Voss, as Corvindale called him. That name suited him more than something that bespoke of early morning meadows. Despite his toffee-colored hair, he was nothing like a sunny morning. More like an afternoon frosted with a soft summer rain: beautiful to look at, yet with a filter of shadow and gloom.
Smiling privately at her own whimsy, Angelica took the opportunity to slip away from Maia when her sister stopped to help Aunt Iliana adjust Mirabella’s wings. Angelica had worn the angel costume to one masque last Season and learned that wings made for a difficult evening. They came askew when dancing, they bumped and caught against people whenever moving through the crush and the harness that kept them in place felt rather like an old-fashioned long corset. Last year, Angelica realized too late that her sister had suggested that costume for just such a reason and resolved to pick her own costumes without Maia’s help in the future.
The free-flowing fabric and simplicity of her attire made it easy for Angelica to slip between a Romeo and a woodland faerie, who happened to have her own set of ungainly wings, and lose herself in the crush.
Tonight, there were no dance cards. No introductions. No matrons (or sisters) glaring from the walls, taking note of any scandalous behavior.
It was no wonder the Sterlinghouse’s annual masque was so popular.
The theme tonight was Ancient Babylon, and Lady Sterlinghouse had outdone herself. Plants hung from high on the walls, blossoming tendrils falling like Rapunzel’s hair and releasing floral scents into the air. Fountains rumbled, adding to the low hum of noise from conversation and music, masking everything but nearby sounds. The servants were dressed as ancient Babylonians in long, geometrically patterned robes, and carried trays laden with food and drink.
Angelica was standing near a fountain, wondering where the water came from that spilled down several levels and lightly sprayed into the air, when a dashing knight approached. Fortunately he wasn’t wearing real chain mail, just tooled leather over a jerkin and hose.
“I do hope you don’t intend to use those on me,” he said, gesturing to the shears in her hand.
It was difficult to tell if she knew his voice, muted as it was by the fountain and other sounds, but he seemed familiar. So Angelica smiled and unraveled a hank of the golden thread. Holding it up, pretending to measure him, she tried to see through his mask. But it was shadowy and dark, and she couldn’t get a good look. “No, I do not believe your time has yet come, sir knight. You’ll live to joust for another day.”
He laughed, and she recognized him then. The young and eligible Visc
ount Harrington, with whom she’d danced at several parties and even once strolled out on a patio, arm in arm. Did he recognize her? Had he sought her out?
“Perhaps you might offer a boon to this lowly man at arms,” he suggested. “It would be my honor to wear your favor into battle next.”
Angelica smiled and snipped off a generous piece of her golden cord. “I vow this is nothing more than a maiden’s favor, not the work of Atropos this night,” she told him, wrapping it around his forearm and tying it lightly.
“It is you,” he said then, smiling beneath his leather mask. “I was nearly certain, Miss Woodmore. It was your hair and the way you move. But now it is confirmed. Along with your favor, might I also request the next dance?”
“Of course. It would be my pleasure,” she replied, replacing her shears and skein in the bag, carefully so that the tips pointed down into a corner of the small satchel. Then she took his arm and allowed him to guide her through the people toward the dance floor.
“It’s a waltz,” he commented as the musicians began the new song. “May I?” he asked again, turning to face her at the edge of the dance floor.
A thrill of the forbidden tripped through Angelica, and she gave a little curtsy. “Yes, my lord.”
Her first waltz.
Angelica’s heart beat a bit more rapidly as Harrington eased her into the unfamiliar position of the dance, nearly embracing her. She was hardly able to contain a nervous smile. They stepped into the rhythm of the music with a bit of hesitation and a slight scuff of her slipper as she learned the step.
They made their way around the room in the three-beat rhythm, making small circles with the triangular step. Angelica enjoyed the freedom of the dance—so different from the line dances and quadrilles where every movement was choreographed and a slight change could disrupt the flow.
But while she had always found Harrington to be very charming and quite handsome, she realized now that she’d come face-to-face with him—quite intimately, in fact—that his shoulders weren’t as broad as she might have thought. And while he moved with ease, an underlying grace and confidence was missing.
Conversation, she found, was much easier with a waltz than when dancing the traditional dances. Instead of constantly separating and then coming back together, she and her partner had the opportunity for uninterrupted repartee. Harrington suggested they ride in the park someday—an invitation which she accepted—and asked about her sisters. Then he said he’d heard about Corvindale taking them in as his wards.
“Yes, that’s true,” Angelica told him. “It’s only been since yesterday and I’m not certain how long we’ll be at Blackmont.”
“You didn’t mention anything about leaving when I came to call two days ago,” he commented, reminding her that, yes, indeed, he had been in her parlor on that day.
The day Dewhurst—Voss—had come and told her about Lord Brickbank.
Suddenly a bit of her pleasure waned.
Brickbank was dead, and, apparently, there was nothing she or anyone could have done to prevent it. The fact had poked at her incessantly, bothering her in a way she hadn’t been bothered since the first time she realized her gift—if one could call it that. This incident had disturbed her, perhaps because it had been so unwelcome. The dream had come upon her with no warning, unlike the other times when she had to concentrate and summon the vision or image to make her prophecy.
Angelica prayed she’d have no more odd dreams like that, for it was one thing when she called on her Sight to help a woman make a decision about her future…but this had been so different. So unexpected.
She hadn’t known Brickbank, but she’d come to know Voss enough in those brief moments that his loss had affected her more deeply than she’d anticipated. He was likely halfway to Romania by now, taking his friend with him back to be buried in his family plot. How long did it take to travel to Romania?
And back?
And why did it even matter to her?
Just as Harrington spun her in a less-than-smooth circle, Angelica saw the figure standing near the fountain she’d been examining only moments before. He seemed to be watching them, and a little frisson sizzled through her at the intensity of his stare.
The shadows embraced him, and the black mask he wore hid all but the lower third of his face. A wide-brimmed hat covered his head and a heavy dark cloak offered more concealment. But he was watching her.
Her heartbeat quickened, and as the dance ended and Harrington escorted her off the floor, Angelica glanced back quickly. He was still looking after her, and as their eyes connected across the space, he gave a bow of acknowledgment. Then, a person moved in the space between them, obstructing the view, and then another, and when Angelica looked again, he was gone.
It took her a moment for her heart to settle to normal, and her breathing to steady. Was it possible Voss was here? That he hadn’t left for Romania? It had to be him, watching her so boldly.
Her belly tingled at the thought and she had to restrain herself from looking back again as her dance partner—whose name she had nearly forgotten—drew her through the clusters of people: a highwayman, a king, an archer, a Hamlet and Ophelia, a Diana and a butterfly.
“Miss Woodmore?”
She looked up at Harrington and realized he’d been trying to gain her attention for some time. “I’m terribly parched,” she said with a smile, utilizing the excuse Maia had taught her to free oneself—either permanently or temporarily—from a companion.
“May I fetch you something to drink?” he asked, leaning close. He smelled pleasant—a woodsy scent. “So you don’t have to wait in line?”
“Yes, indeed. I understand there is some effervescent drink with lemon in it. It sounds lovely.” Because the mask obscured her face, she couldn’t bat her eyelashes, but she did look up at him with a smile.
As Harrington rushed off, Angelica realized that, ironically, she’d used a similar excuse to extricate herself from a different dance partner so that she could speak with Harrington himself some time ago. Maia, who’d been very clever at managing her many beaux before settling on Alexander Bradington, would be proud of her sister’s expertise.
“Do you care to dance?” came a low voice behind her.
Angelica barely managed to keep from clapping a startled hand to her bosom and instead merely straightened. How had he gotten over here so quickly? “Of course,” she replied, turning. Her heart was pounding, and beneath her gloves, her palms had gone damp.
He was there, perhaps not as tall as she’d remembered, but darker and more forbidding thanks to his unrelieved black garb and shadowing hat. The full cloak covered him from shoulder nearly to the floor, and the mask obscured him from temple to upper lip. That left only a bit of jaw and cheek uncovered, but they too were shadowed by a high, white Elizabethan neck ruff.
“Or would you prefer to take in some air beneath the stars?” he added.
His face and eyes were in shadow, and he spoke so low and so near to her ear that, although she could understand what he was saying, and his breath was warm against her, she wasn’t able to recognize his voice.
Much as she would like to walk beneath the stars with Lord Dewhurst…Voss…until she was certain it was he, Angelica wouldn’t do anything so scandalous.
Although…she was in a mask. No one would recognize her except her sister. “Perhaps after the dance some fresh air would be in order,” she said prudently. That would give her time.
“Come then,” he said and drew her toward the dance floor.
The music had already begun: another waltz. Only at a masquerade ball would there be so many of the scandalous dances in a row, and Angelica felt a prickle of naughtiness as she allowed him to twirl her into position.
“Have you received any word from your brother?” he murmured.
It was Voss, then. Angelica’s heart lightened and she smiled up at him, allowing her pleasure to show in her eyes. “I have not,” she replied. “But I am surprised to see you here. I
thought you would be well on your way to Romania.”
There was a pause as he executed some unfamiliar step, half turning her away so that they could pass by another couple. “Ah, yes. I’ve been delayed.”
“Corvindale won’t be pleased, I’m certain,” Angelica said.
“You’ve spoken to him?”
“Of course. He avoids us all as much as possible, but of course it is difficult to completely ignore the man whose house we are living in.” She was aware of the solidness of his arms, the warmth of his body near hers.
Voss looked down at her, his eyes seeming to almost glow behind the shadow of his mask. “Living in Corvindale’s home must be most unpleasant.”
She felt a little shiver run over the back of her shoulders. He sounded angry, almost malicious. “I know there is little love lost between the two of you, but he hasn’t been unkind to us,” she said. There was no reason that she should allow his dislike of the earl to color her own opinion.
Again, a pause as they stepped through several more paces, and Angelica realized that Voss had maneuvered them toward the edge of the dance floor. Beyond the clusters of people and the dangling vines from the Babylonian plants, the doors to the gardens were open. Two sets of tall double doors had been flung wide, allowing easy access to the torchlit pathways several steps below the balcony.
As they drew nearer, a vibrant breeze brushed over her warm skin and Angelica was grateful when Voss eased her off the dance floor. She had begun to feel warm from the dancing and the fresh night air would be a glad change. Especially since she would be with Voss.
Would he try to kiss her? Her belly flipped at the thought and her cheeks warmed. She suspected a kiss from Voss would be very different from the one Harrington had brushed over her lips at the Farbers’ fete.
Sliding a firm arm around her waist, he kept her close as they walked through the doors. Angelica had a moment’s bit of nervousness and looked behind her to make certain Maia wasn’t watching their almost intimate pose—the side of her body was caught up next to his taller one and his arm was tight. He wasn’t about to let her go.