by Trisha Telep
And him her. “Then take me,” she whispered, feeling the morning tide pulling her away from him. “Please, I am yours,” she said, shocked by her own bold and impassioned plea.
“Then you realize what that means. If I have you now, I will have you for ever.” His mouth curved into a smile.
But how could she tell him there was no for ever for them. That tomorrow she would be well and gone from London. There was no time for him to save her.
Save from the bonfire of desire crackling inside her.
“This is how it ought to be,” she told him, reaching up and cradling his face. To reinforce her words, she arched her hips up to brush against him, nudge him to come closer, to fill her.
She pulled his head down and kissed him. They began again, kissing and touching and exploring and the fury of their early moments became an exquisite dance. And when he entered her, he did it slowly, allowing her to feel the pleasure of each stroke, so when he breached her barrier, it was over and done and then there was only pleasure . . . Sweet euphoric pleasure that surrounded them both, drove them both until once again they were riding that wild cadence that had ensnared them earlier but this time it brought them both to a heady release.
Ella gasped as the first wave of sensuous gratification came over her, filled as she was by him, covered by him, surrounded by him and so she caught hold of him and clung to him, as her body drowned in the sweet pleasure.
And she wasn’t alone, for he made a deep groan and stroked her wildly and deeply as he too found his release.
He collapsed into her arms and they clung to each other, marvelling in the starry world they had found in each other’s arms.
A little while later, he rose from the couch and pulled her up as well. Glancing behind her, he laughed a bit. “I fear I’ve broken more than just your wings.”
She caught a glimpse of herself and saw the real problem – there was no disguising the fact that she’d been tumbled. Besides her dishevelled curls, the lost petals in her crown, the wrinkled state of her gown, there was no mistaking the starry light of wonder in her eyes.
Oh, good heavens, that is what it means to be loved, she realized, her hands coming to her cheeks. She doubted very much that this was what Mrs Garraway had meant when she’d told her to enjoy herself.
Behind her, her knight took her in his arms and pulled her against his chest, then he tipped his chin up and kissed her. After a few more kisses, he tried to straighten out her flowered crown and resettle it atop her tangled hair. He finally gave up and laughed at his own lopsided attempts, handing her back the fairy crown. As she went over to the mirror to set it to rights and make what repairs she could, she heard him say, “I never believed in the legend, until tonight.”
“The legend?” Ella said, distracted by the tangle of curls before her. Oh, good heavens, she wouldn’t have to wait until tomorrow to be sacked. Even near-sighted old Lady Osborn would be able to see what she’d done.
“The Ashe legend,” he said over his shoulder as he pulled on his boots. “About finding a bride at the ball. I had rather thought it a bit of madness cooked up to get reluctant heirs to marry.”
Ella stepped back and eyed her work – not bad, she almost looked as she had earlier, save one missing earbob. Turning to look for it, she told him, “Well, you needn’t fear such a legend, because I believe it only applies to Lord Ashe.”
Then there was a long silence, one that said more than a declaration of the truth.
Lord Ashe? “No!” she gasped, as she slowly raised her gaze to his. He couldn’t be.
“I thought you knew,” he said. “But it is no matter, the only problem is my mother.”
“Your mother?” she forced past her suddenly parched throat.
“Yes. She’ll be crowing for weeks. She worked over that damned invitation list of hers and vowed I would find a suitable bride tonight. She left nothing to chance as she wanted me well matched. And now I am. Perfectly so.”
“And you think—” It was all Ella could manage to get out.
“That you are perfect? Yes, in every way.”
Ella groaned. “Oh, this cannot be.” He couldn’t be Lord Ashe.
“I thought you knew,” he repeated.
She shook her head. “No, I never!”
“Does it make a difference?”
However was she to answer that? Did it make a difference to her? No, he was still the most wonderful man she’d ever met. But he thought her to be a lady. One of his mother’s eligible misses.
Not Ella Cynders, a mere companion. Make that a “disgraced-without-references-and-unemployed” companion.
Suddenly the blare of a trumpet pierced the solitude that had surrounded them.
“Excellent,” he said. “Time for the unmasking and our announcement.” He held out his hand for her.
“Announcement?”
“Of our engagement.” He drew her close again and kissed her forehead. “That was the point of the ball. So I could find a bride. And I have found you. If you think I am letting you go, you are most mistaken.”
“But I-I-I . . .” she stammered. “That is . . . Oh, the devil take me, this is happening too fast.”
He glanced at her as he towed her from the room. “Don’t you want to get married?”
“Well, yes,” she said without thinking, for she was too busy trying to find a way out of this muddle. She couldn’t be unmasked, couldn’t have him announce his engagement to a mere hired companion.
He’d be the laughing stock of London.
She had to tell him, and tell him quickly, that she couldn’t be his bride.
“I suppose you will want to tell your guardian first. Of course,” Lord Ashe was saying as he drew her closer and closer to the ballroom. “That is understandable.”
Tell her guardian? She didn’t have a guardi . . . Ella’s panic had her digging her heels into the carpet. Not that Ashe noticed her reluctance. He all but carried her along, as if her leaden steps were nothing of note.
As for Ella . . . She had to imagine that Mrs Garraway’s ship wouldn’t be sailing soon enough to get her out of London. Lady Osborn would have her thrown in Newgate before the sun was up, for bringing this scandal down upon them.
If I can find Mrs Garraway, maybe she can help, Ella thought desperately. Maybe she can get me out of here before . . .
Just then they slipped into the ballroom and Lord Ashe turned to her, beaming. “Go speak to your guardian and be ready when I call for you.” He winked. “Just for a few more moments, and then you will be mine always.” Before she could stop him, before she could confess the truth, he turned and strode confidently, proudly, through the crowd, towards the dais where his mother was waiting for him to announce the unmasking.
Ella drew an unsteady breath as he moved away from her. The further he went the more she felt him slipping away.
“There you are!” Lady Osborn said, coming up from behind her. “Where have you been, Pamela?” And then she looked at the young lady she assumed was her daughter.
Ella had to imagine that her hasty attempt to salvage her costume and her tumbled hair had failed given the lady’s wide-eyed expression of horror.
“What have you done?” she hissed, coming closer and taking Ella by the arm, dragging her towards the door. “Who did this to you? Is it that wretched Lord Percy? Because if he thinks to press his suit in this sort of despicable manner, he is sadly mistaken. Your father and I will never allow you—” By now Lady Osborn had dragged Ella out to the foyer and had her pinned in an alcove. The lady stood so close that not only could she see every bit of evidence of Ella’s rumpled condition, but one other pertinent fact.
That the girl she held wasn’t her daughter.
“Ella!” she said, releasing her and stepping back.
“Lady Osborn,” Ella replied, tipping her head, and fixing her gaze on the floor.
The matron glanced around and then caught Ella by the arm, rattling her like a rag doll. “Where is my daughter?
”
Ella bit her lip and tried to speak. She tried to confess the truth, but the woman was hurting her, her unforgiving grasp like a pair of steel pinchers.
“Never mind, I can guess.” Lady Osborn pulled her towards the door. “She’s run off with that wicked boy.”
Ella took a furtive glance at the ballroom, where Lord Ashe stood unmasked. She could see him scanning the room, looking for her.
The last thing she saw before Lady Osborn hauled her out the door was the startled expression on his handsome face as he caught sight of her.
But it was too late. Ella was about to pay the piper for her impetuous nature and there was naught her knight could do to reach her in time.
Four
The Ashe Ball – 1815
Ella took a deep breath when the carriage stopped before the Ashe townhouse. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t.
But now it was far too late to back out, for too many others had put their own employment on the line for her to disavow them.
Oh, Hazel, what did I let you do? she thought, as the handsome footman – one of three – opened the door and held out his hand to her. This was all Hazel’s doing – the elegant carriage driven by a well-appointed set of matching white horses, a coachman, and three footmen, all courtesy of the Marquess of Holbech, who was currently in Scotland at his hunting box and had no knowledge of his brand-new and as-yet-unmarked carriage being used in this manner.
But Hazel’s flirtatious romance with one of his footmen was enough to gain its illicit use. And, as it turned out, the Marquess’ old coachman had a romantic streak. He managed to rummage up some old, unremarkable livery for them to wear so they wouldn’t be identified.
“Remember, madam,” Hazel’s swain said quietly as he handed Ella down to the kerb. “Before midnight. We must be away.”
She nodded, drawing her cloak around her and pulling its hood down over her face. She ascended the stairs to the grand front door. Other guests were arriving as well and there was a bit of a queue to enter – for each guest had to present their invitation to pass inside.
As she neared the door, a familiar voice cut through the excited whispers around her. “I say, I have an invitation but it was stolen!” Lady Fitzsimon complained. “Now let us in!”
Ella glanced up to find the matron and her daughter standing before the butler, holding up the procession. Ella was glad for her mask, and did a second check to make sure her gown wasn’t showing under the concealing cloak. But still, if the lady recognized her . . .
Not that this was likely to happen, for Lady Fitzsimon was in a rare mood, facing down the Ashe butler like Wellington’s troops charging forth. She was going to breach this party if it took her all night.
The butler snapped his fingers at one of the footmen to continue checking invitations so the front steps didn’t turn into a crush.
Ella handed over her invite and held her breath until the man waved her inside, and began checking the invitations of the others behind her. She hurried along, Lady Fitzsimon’s shrill notes chasing her inside.
“I say, I was invited!” the matron complained, her voice rising sharply, almost hysterically. “I will not be denied entrance. If you would but tell Lady Ashe to come to the door, she would order you immediately to admit me and my daughter.”
“Madam,” the butler intoned, “Lady Ashe’s rules are simple. No invitation, no entrance.”
A tall, graceful lady and her equally noble husband came to a stop beside Ella. The woman glanced over her shoulder at Lady Fitzsimon and then back at Ella. “Dreadful woman. No manners.”
“Yes, quite,” Ella replied, imitating the same bored, elegant tones.
“Oh, heavens, I can’t recall where the retiring room is,” the woman said, before turning to one of the footmen. “Which way?”
He bowed slightly and then pointed up the stairs, not that Ella needed directions. She’d imagined the Ashe house over and over these past five years.
“Come along, my dear,” the lady said. “I do so hate going up alone.”
As they made their way up the stairs, Ella shot a glance towards the ballroom, searching for her knight errant. But in the crowd of guests, it was impossible to find him – then again, she remembered, he would be in costume.
Not that she thought he could hide his identity from her. Not even after all these years. Still, whatever was she going to say to him?
They went upstairs and, to Ella’s relief, Hazel and Martha were there, helping the guests and making small repairs to various ladies’ costumes. Madame Delaflote often hired them out, at a considerable profit, to provide these services.
Hazel nudged Martha when Ella arrived, and Hazel hurried over to help her take off her cloak.
The moment the cloak was removed, an awed hush came over the crowded room, as all eyes turned towards Ella. Her costume, her hair – done up in a cascade of curls that fell down to her back – the glitter of the silver embroidery, and the soft glow of a thousand seed pearls, caused a sensation.
“You made it in,” Hazel whispered, as she checked Ella’s back to make certain her wings were still intact.
“Yes, your friends played their part perfectly.”
The girl grinned. “This is the best lark—”
“That could end with us all being sacked. Lady Fitzsimon is downstairs determined to get in.”
Hazel waved her off. “Let her try. She hasn’t an invitation. As for being sacked . . .” The girl shrugged and then glanced around the room. Every eye was on the two of them. Well, on Ella. Hazel went back to work, with her nose in the air, setting Ella’s gown to rights. “We’ll not be sacked. For when you are Lady Ashe, Madame Delaflote won’t dare.” She knelt down and straightened the hemline. And with that completed, Hazel curtseyed slightly and said, “All is well, your highness.”
Ella’s eyes widened even as a gossipy trill ran through the room.
“A princess?”
“But from where?”
“Have you seen such a gown?”
Hazel sent her a cheeky wink and then there was nothing left for Ella to do but to go and face her past.
Lord Ashe stood in the ballroom and watched the parade of masked and costumed debutantes, ladies and likely brides stroll past.
But none of them was her.
And tonight was his last chance to find her. Not that he had much hope left. For every year, as each subsequent ball came and went, and she hadn’t arrived, he’d begun to wonder if she’d ever existed, his lady in green silk.
Where are you? he mused. We are running out of time.
Then a strange hushed air moved through the crowd, followed by a tremor of whispers. One after another, the guests turned towards the entrance to gaze at the latest arrival.
Ashe stilled as he spied the graceful lady making her entrance.
No, it couldn’t be her. It couldn’t be.
But then she turned her head and he spied something he had dared not hope to see. For on the back of her costume perched a pair of gossamer wings. Fairy wings.
Ashe pushed his way forwards without thinking. He ignored the insulted gasps of his guests pressing his way through the crowd, even as speculative whispers whirled around him.
“A princess, I heard.”
“Russian, I believe.”
“Wherever did she get that costume?”
Then before he realized it, she stood before him.
“You!” he exclaimed. “I’ve found you!”
She smiled at him, her blue eyes twinkling behind her mask. “No, I believe I found you.”
“It doesn’t matter how you’ve come back,” he told her, catching her by the hand and drawing her into his arms. “I won’t lose you again.” Then, to seal his vow, his head dipped down and his lips captured hers.
The night from five years ago came back to him in rich clarity. It was her, the same sweet response, the same curves, the same soft sigh as he deepened his kiss and plundered her lips without any thought of pr
opriety. And when he pulled back and held her at arm’s length, he could only exclaim, “Devil take me, my love, I cannot believe I have found you.”
“Believe again,” she whispered, raising her lips to his and again, they kissed, much to the shocked gasps of the company around them.
“I have imagined this so many times,” he whispered in her ear.
“You have?” She sounded surprised.
“Yes, of course,” he told her. “You left me bewitched and lost that night.”
“I did?” Truly, how could she be so surprised? Hadn’t that night meant as much to her?
“Yes, you did,” he told her with every bit of his heart, and an unabashed grin from ear to ear.
Her eyes sparkled beneath her mask. “And now?”
He grinned even more if that was possible. “I am still yours, my fey sweet love, if you will have me.”
“I . . .” she stammered, much as she had years before, and he realized he had to tread carefully lest he frighten her off yet again. He hadn’t another five years to wait.
The musicians struck up their instruments and Ashe smiled at her, holding her slim hand in his. “Come, you owe me this dance. One of many, I might add. I’ve been waiting all these years for your return.”
He unmasked himself then led her out to the dance floor, to the amazed and scandalized stares of his guests. For it appeared to one and all that the Ashe legend was about to come true and the viscount had found his bride.
More than one matron with an unmarried daughter in tow and her hopes now dashed for an advantageous marriage, cursed this interloper, this princess from out of nowhere.
Ashe led her out to where the couples were lining up for the first set and, when the music began, it was as if time had not moved a tick since the ball five years earlier.
“Your hair is red,” he teased as they came together.
“Are you disappointed?”
“No, enchanted. It is glorious,” he whispered. He knew what it felt like, but now he could see the ginger strands and honeyed colours. He imagined what those silken tresses would look like spread out over his sheets, unbound and cascading all over her naked shoulders. “The colour matches your unmanageable temperament, as I recall.”