Lord Featherstone released her and stepped back. Meg turned toward Carlo in relief, but the look of fury he directed toward the earl shocked her, and the warmth she’d felt was doused by cold dread. If a servant should strike a nobleman, he would be hanged. Already he had taken a risk coming to her aid.
Meg stepped between the two men. She could not allow the earl to know that she had an association with Carlo. And she definitely could not allow Carlo to challenge him. She did not believe Lord Featherstone would stoop so low as to duel with a commoner.
“Sir, you misunderstand Lord Featherstone’s attentions. He was simply bidding me farewell.” She turned to the earl. “Is that not right, my lord?”
“Quite, miss,” Lord Featherstone said.
Meg was surprised at the earl’s expression. He looked at Carlo with fear instead of the arrogance she would have expected as he certainly had the upper hand in the situation.
Carlo did not take his eyes off the earl. His jaw was set and his eyes cold.
Lord Featherstone turned to Meg, bowing his head. “If you will excuse me, miss. I thank you for the pleasant walk.” His voice was stiff.
“Of course, my lord,” she said, but she did not think the earl heard her. He was already off the bridge and well on his way back to join the rest of the company.
She turned toward Carlo and just as quickly was in his arms, despite knowing how wrong it was for her to be there. She leaned against him, holding on tightly as she trembled and tried to restrain her tears.
“Did he hurt you, Margarita?” Carlo’s voice was low. He pulled away and cupped her chin, lifting her face. The anger was still in his eyes, simmering beneath the surface, but it was tempered with concern.
“No. He didn’t hurt me.” Meg’s stomach quivered at the memory of the earl’s advances, but she firmed her resolve and clamped down on the tears that threatened to surface. “Carlo, you should not have interfered.”
“You would rather I allowed that man to—” He clenched his teeth together, his eyes darting toward the trees where the earl had gone.
“I would rather you did not hang.” Meg laid her hand on Carlo’s cheek, her voice cracked as she spoke. “Do you not realize what would have happened if the earl had not fled? He may even now be speaking to the duke or the prince. And you will be punished.”
“No, Margarita. I will not.”
“Carlo, you are not invincible. I do not know how it is in Spain, but in England, you—and I for that matter—we are at a disadvantage. We are not considered equals by the aristocracy, and it is best to avoid their displeasure.” She lifted her other hand to frame his face. “I could not bear it if you were punished because of me.”
Carlo tightened his arms around her waist, and she slid her hands down the sides of his neck, onto his shoulders. The bonnet she had been so grateful for a few moments earlier now seemed a hindrance.
“Margarita, I have something I must tell you.”
His eyes burned, but it was not with anger as it had been when he’d glared at Lord Featherstone. The intensity she saw within them stole her breath. She knew what he would say. He was going to declare his love for her. She didn’t think she could bear to hear the words. Not when the sound of his voice speaking them would remain in her memory, haunting her forever.
“Do not say it, Carlo.”
He blinked and confusion clouded his features, but Meg was spared the heartache of rejecting him again when they heard her name called.
She recognized Helen’s voice and pushed Carlo away. “I must go.” Meg turned and hurried across the bridge and through the trees, toward the meadow. She didn’t look back.
Helen waved when she appeared. “I saw my brother return alone. I wondered if everything was all right.”
“Of course.” Meg smiled and linked her arm through Helen’s. “I wished for some time alone with my thoughts, and he kindly obliged me.”
“I am relieved. I do not like the idea of you alone in the forest. Any number of dangers could lurk within.”
None more dangerous than Lord Featherstone, Meg thought.
Meg did not return to the picnic, claiming that her walk had quite worn her out. It was not a lie, her emotions had been strained nearly to the breaking point, and she feared that if she did not retreat, she would unravel.
Bidding Helen farewell, Meg walked slowly through the castle entrance, stopping only long enough to allow a maid to take her bonnet and gloves. She proceeded up the grand staircase and directly to the library. Any solace she might have found in her books was long gone since she had packed them away in the bottom of her trunk a few days earlier. She avoided the window bench, instead making her way to the wingback chairs near the fireplace.
Since no one was around to be displeased with her lack of comportment, Meg slumped into the chair and pulled her feet onto the seat, wrapping her arms around her knees. She didn’t know if she could endure another meeting with Carlo and the battle of emotions he produced. If her heart was abused many more times, she wondered if it would survive.
“I thought I might find you here, miss,” Colonel Stackhouse said when he entered the room.
Meg jolted, sitting up straight and smoothing down her skirts. “You startled me, sir.”
Jim sat in the seat across from her. “It has been quite some time since I’ve seen you in the library—nearly a week, I’d guess.”
“I suppose I have not had much time for reading.”
Jim pinched his bottom lip thoughtfully, and Meg’s eyes were drawn to his face. His expression was much easier, less critical. He looked content—she would not go so far as to say he looked agreeable—and she was surprised to see that without his annoyed frown, the man was almost . . . handsome. “Miss Meg, I hope you will not resent me for speaking plainly.”
“I would expect nothing less from you, Colonel.” Meg allowed a small smile, though she felt uneasy at what he might say.
The colonel nodded. “Yes, I am not one to mince words, as you are well aware. So I will get right to the point.”
Meg did not know what to expect. To say that he made her nervous was an understatement, but she believed she could trust him.
“Do you remember the advice I gave you when we last sat in these chairs?”
Meg remembered the day well, and she’d thought of his words often. “I remember, sir.”
“Yes, I did not think you were the type to forget anything. I would wager you could quote my words back to me verbatim. And I am left to wonder why you choose not to follow the counsel I gave.”
Meg lowered her eyes. Her stomach rolled in shame. “It is not my choice, sir.”
“In that you are mistaken. The young lady who braved the disapproval of the ton by quoting a scandalous poem—and providing the best entertainment I’ve had in years, I might add—that young lady is not so foolish as to believe that her actions are not a result of her own choices.”
Meg crossed her arms in front of her. “If you will remember, I told you that same day that I do not have the luxury of choosing my situation.”
“And excuse me if I disagree with you. I believe there is always a choice.”
Meg did not respond. Her eyes burned, and she could not lift them to meet the colonel’s gaze, which she was certain held disappointment. She certainly felt disappointment in herself.
“Miss, I’ll admit I’ve grown fond of ya.” When Colonel Stackhouse spoke, his voice had gentled, and the sound was so surprising that Meg looked up. “And I hate to see you lose your enthusiasm for everything important to you in order to be agreeable to particular gentlemen. I noticed you’ve put away your books, you’ve taken to acting subdued and compliant, even when the things others have said should be riling you up in outrage. I believe I even heard you discussing the number of drawing rooms in Lord Featherstone’s country home with apparent interest. Frankly, you’ve become quite dull.”
Meg nodded, hating that his words were true.
“This is exactly what I am talki
ng about,” Colonel Stackhouse said. “You’re not even chastising me for a direct offense.”
“I am sorry, sir. I suppose—”
“You’re wilting, Miss Meg,” he said in a soft voice.
Meg’s tears spilled over, and she swallowed hard.
“Oh, by all the saints. Must you start weeping?” He handed her a handkerchief. “I will take it as a sign that my words made an impact.” He studied Meg for a moment as she wiped her eyes and tried to regain her composure.
“Miss, if I may ask, does this change in your demeanor have anything to do with the confidence you entrusted me with, in regards to a certain riding companion?”
She nodded, and the colonel leaned back in his seat, breathing in and out as he stretched his hands on the arms of the chair. “Very well, then I will amend the advice I gave to you.” He leaned forward, waiting until Meg met his gaze before he spoke. “Do not let logic or duty override matters of the heart.”
Meg must have looked flabbergasted because the colonel’s expression transformed into a sheepish smile. “I maintain the importance of the correct associations, Miss Meg.” He cleared his throat. “I have learned both of these lessons myself these past weeks.”
Meg did not have an opportunity to respond since the colonel stood and gave a small bow. “And that calls to mind a promise I made to accompany a particular person on a carriage ride before supper.” His face colored the slightest bit, and a hint of a smile turned his mouth. “If you will excuse me.”
Meg returned his handkerchief, bewildered by the unexpected change in the colonel’s mannerisms. She thought about his transformed conduct and softened appearance. Was he relaxing and enjoying relative safety away from the war? Did he appreciate his increase in society? Or was Colonel Jim Stackhouse in love? The idea made her smile. It seemed a logical explanation for his sentiments, but if such was the case, with whom?
She thought back on the advice he had given more than a week earlier. He was correct; she could have quoted him verbatim, having repeated the words so often in her mind. “The correct relationship will make a person bloom. He becomes more himself, his talents deepen, his personality grows, and he thrives. But the wrong relationship will produce the opposite. The things that were once so vital no longer matter. His talents disappear, his individuality fades, and he wilts.”
Meg pulled her feet back up into her chair, hugging her knees. She had no doubt that Carlo brought out the best in her, and she hoped she did the same for him. Meg thought of the colonel’s latest advice. “Do not let logic or duty override matters of the heart.” It was beautiful and exactly what she hoped for, but the colonel was blind if he did not understand that a future for Meg and Carlo was impossible.
Chapter 17
Meg stood in front of the tall mirror in her bedchamber as the modiste adjusted her gown. While she did not care for the enormous ruffled collar or wrist cuffs, Meg was quite pleased with the rest of the costume. She wore a full corset beneath, and the modiste’s assistants had spent a fair amount of time tightening and cinching her waist until she thought she would pass out from lack of air, but when they assisted her into the dress, she was amazed at the effect. The stuffed sleeves and gathered skirts accentuated the silhouette of a petite waist. Rows of pearl beading crisscrossed over the tight bodice. The tapestry fabric was heavy, but the dress was crafted in such a fashion that it did not weigh her down, and there was even a bit of a train that Meg considered particularly wonderful though thoroughly impractical.
Bessie had already styled her hair, pulling the curls back and loosely arranging them. A beaded crown was settled into her tresses, and Bessie adjusted it to allow soft waves to frame Meg’s forehead.
Meg held the mask to her face, studying the effect in the mirror. She could not help the thrill that tingled through her at the sight. The mask was made of the same tapestry as her gown and shaped to fit over her eyes and nose. Pearl beads outlined the edges and the eye openings, and ribbons hung from the sides to secure it to her head while she danced. She looked decidedly mysterious.
Meg lowered the mask and studied her face. She attempted a smile, but it fell flat. The melancholy that she could not seem to be rid of still cast its shadow over her features She hoped her mask would conceal that shortcoming because try as she might, it was impossible to reclaim the joy that had once been such a part of her.
Meg pinched her cheeks. The ball was the first official event of her Season, and she was resolved to make it a success. In time, her heartache would lessen, she was certain of it. And once she was away from the castle and in London, it would be easier. But for now, she would take advantage of this fortunate opportunity and enjoy herself at the party.
She lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders, wishing she could completely dispel the gloom that seemed ever present when Carlo was not. Meg shook her head. She could not allow her mind to travel down that path again. Not if she had any intentions of a pleasant evening.
She met the other ladies in the conservatory. Lucinda looked beautiful and ethereal in her green wood nymph gown, with flowers and twigs artfully woven into her hair. When she saw Meg, her bright eyes narrowed, and Meg felt a small thrill of victory. Although she had suspected it at the time, Lucinda’s expression confirmed that her suggestion for Meg’s costume had not been offered out of kindness, and she was disappointed to see that Meg did not look as dowdy as she’d hoped.
Helen was an enchanting Cleopatra. Her white gown was cinched at the waist with a gold belt, and a crown in the shape of a cobra wrapped around her light brown hair. She held an equally spectacular golden mask in her hand. When she saw Meg, Helen hurried toward her and took her hand. “Meg, you look stunning,” she said. “You will certainly attract many gentlemen admirers.”
“As will you, Helen. I believe the station of Queen of the Nile suits you.”
Helen smiled shyly.
The countesses entered the room in flowing robes of Greek goddesses, with laurel leaves in their hair. Both women looked beautiful, but Meg was amazed at Lady Featherstone’s transformation. She practically glowed.
Meg was so taken aback by the countess’s newfound radiance that she was startled when Helen spoke. “Meg, did you hear Lucinda’s question?”
“No.” Meg turned toward the elder Poulter sister. “I’m sorry, Lady Lucinda. I am apparently very distracted tonight. Would you mind repeating yourself?”
Lucinda’s sharp face retained its pleasant expression, but her eyes squinted slightly in a look of irritation. “I asked if you had heard Mr. Newton declare that he would claim my hand for the first dance? He is partial to me, you know. But, I shall of course reserve a dance or two for the prince.”
“How fortunate for both gentlemen,” Meg said, determined not to allow Lucinda’s words to bother her. The prince surely deserved to dance with Lucinda after the rude way he’d been avoiding them.
“And I do hope the two of you have your share of dances,” Lucinda said to Meg and Helen, though her attention was on her own reflection as she turned to study her figure in the window behind them. “It would be a very hard thing for you to be overlooked.”
Before Meg could think of a reply, Serena entered the room. She was breathtaking in her red and black ruffled dress with a veil of lace held in her hair by a red mantilla comb. She already wore her black mask, and the red ribbons that hung from it curled into her thick dark hair.
“Oh,” she said, clapping her hands. “Todos se ven perfecto! You all look perfect!” She admired each lady in turn, complimenting their costumes and tying a dance card to their wrist.
When she turned to Meg, Serena reached for her arm. She tied the silken cord to attach the dance card and a small charcoal pencil to Meg’s wrist—beneath the ruffled cuffs of Meg’s costume.
Meg lifted her arm, admiring the booklet. An elegant eye mask was drawn on the cover beneath beautiful calligraphy wording.
Charles Benton Bramwell, Duke of Southampton, and
Princesa
Serena Antoinetta Bramwell, Duchess of Southampton,
welcome you to the Masquerade Ball.
Thornshire Castle,
Monday, March 30, 1812.
Meg started to open the cover, getting only a glimpse inside before Serena took her hand and reclaimed her attention.
“Meg, you are so beautiful, but your smile, it is missing.”
“I must be more nervous than I realized,” Meg said and attempted to lift her lips into what she hoped resembled a cheerful expression. If only Serena’s accent did not sound so much like Carlo’s.
“I know you will have a special night,” Serena said and kissed Meg’s cheek.
She turned to the group. “But I must meet my husband and welcome our guests.”
“And your brother?” Lucinda said. “The prince still plans to attend?”
“Yes, Rodrigo, he will attend tonight.” She squeezed Meg’s hand once again and departed, walking with her chin raised and back straight and leaving Meg in awe of Serena’s beauty and grace. She was the perfect hostess.
Lady Featherstone and Lady Vernon helped the young ladies fasten their masks, and the group descended a back staircase to meet the gentlemen in the great hall. When they arrived, there was such a crowd of people, and all of them with their faces concealed, that Meg could not immediately locate Daniel.
Meg kept a hold of Helen’s hand as they became separated from the rest of their group. Guests laughed and greeted each other, comparing costumes and expressing their excitement for the Season. Meg and Helen wove between people, emerging from the crowd and skirting around the edge of the entryway near the staircase. Meg stood on her toes and scanned the room, looking for her brother’s red hair. She froze for a moment as a man turned toward her.
He was dressed completely in black, his face partly covered by a black mask. The way he stood—shoulders lowered, chin raised, and back straight—seemed familiar, and when their eyes met, he smiled. Carlo?
She shook her head, irritated that she’d even had the thought.
Miss Burton Unmasks a Prince Page 15