Chapter 12
Sorella Teresa: Bless me, Father, for I have kissed.
Breaking the Habit, Act 2, Scene 3
The Merrywether ball was only two days away when Annabelle and Alice, out shopping with Sarah, discovered that she intended to wear her blue domino again.
“Sarah,” Annabelle said rather sharply, “you can’t wear that old thing again.”
“Why not?”
“A domino,” Alice sniffed, “is a waste of a costume. They cover you up nearly completely, and there will be so many other people wearing them that you won’t stand out.”
“I’m not particularly wishing to stand out,” Sarah said.
“It’s not as though you have to make a spectacle of yourself by dressing up as a bawdy nun or some such,” Alice said. “There are all sorts of good costumes. You might be a queen.”
“I really don’t see myself as a queen,” Sarah said dryly.
Alice cocked her head. “Oh, I don’t know. There’s something about you, an air of command.”
Sarah knew why Alice felt this, even if Alice couldn’t put her finger on the reason: because she had the features of an old Roman general. “Not a queen,” Sarah said firmly.
“Very well, not a queen,” Annabelle said, “but you can’t waste an opportunity to wear something wonderful.” The young ladies promptly dragged her into a dressmaker’s shop. Which was how Sarah found herself fingering a lavishly decorated mask and flirting with the idea of wearing something besides a domino.
The mask was a little larger than most of the others in the shop display, and it was painted gold and trimmed in sequins. It was eye-catching and thus exactly the sort of thing she never wore. Sarah favored gowns with clean lines and no bows or flourishes, and she had never considered adding flashy bits like crystals to her attire. With a nose that already drew too much attention, she had never wanted to make herself stand out more.
“That mask is perfect,” Annabelle breathed.
Sarah rolled her eyes. “It’s perfectly gaudy.” And it was, with its twinkling sequins. But it was also quite pretty, and when she held it up to her face, it covered her nose.
“You must have it,” Annabelle urged. “It reminds me of the glow of the moon on a summer night.”
Sarah gave her a dry look. “Dearest, you’ve clearly been reading too much poetry of late.”
But Annabelle wasn’t listening, and she grabbed Sarah’s arm excitedly. “Why, you could be a moonbeam!”
“A moonbeam?” Sarah repeated skeptically, shifting the mask this way and that to catch the light.
“A wonderful idea,” said the modiste lingering nearby, no doubt to help people spend money. The woman’s eyes passed shrewdly over Sarah’s form. “I have just the thing.”
She disappeared into the back of the shop and emerged with a gown of shimmering gold satin that had been ordered by a lady months before but never collected.
“The necessary alterations would be minor,” the modiste insisted.
Sarah trailed her fingers over the fabric, which did look ethereal enough to be a moonbeam. “I suppose I could try it on.”
“You absolutely must,” Alice insisted.
The modiste took Sarah to a little room in the back of the shop. When the last button had been done up a few minutes later and Sarah turned around, Annabelle gave a sigh that sounded as though it had been poised for release for months.
“Oh, Sarah, finally,” she said.
“Finally what?” Sarah said.
“Finally, you are wearing something worthy of you.”
Alice breathed out a soft sigh. “You look absolutely celestial.”
The gown had been a trifle loose in the bust, but the modiste had inserted a few pins to fit it snugly, in the process pushing Sarah’s modest bosom up and making it look like much more than it was. But the gown really was something, skimming her waist just so and falling in lustrous ripples that seemed to contain all the light in the room.
“You don’t think it’s too…” Sarah swirled a hand near her bosom, which was now all she could see when she looked down. Her feet had completely disappeared.
“No,” all three women said together.
“A bosom is not for hiding,” the modiste pronounced.
Alice giggled. “That sounds like a wise old proverb. But it’s true, Sarah. A ball is not the time to hide your charms.”
Sarah bought the dress and the mask, the modiste promising to deliver the altered gown by the next morning. As they left the shop, Annabelle slipped her arm around Sarah’s waist.
“The gentlemen won’t be able to resist you, Lady Moonbeam.”
Sarah tried not to hope that a certain gentleman would at least notice Lady Moonbeam.
Aunt Louise was predictably horrified by the idea of yet another masquerade ball, though she was somewhat relieved when Annabelle told her that Lady Fiona Boxhaven and Lady Alice would take them to the ball, thus excusing her from any responsibility.
“I suppose the dowager marchioness is a sensible lady,” Aunt Louise allowed.
Annabelle, clearly biting back laughter at such grudging approval of one of the most respected ladies of the ton, said, “I think you must be right, Aunt.”
The night of the ball, Annabelle insisted that she and Sarah dress together.
“It’s more fun this way,” Annabelle announced when she arrived at Sarah’s bedchamber with her costume and a maid.
“I’ve never thought about the fact that both of us were our parents’ only children,” Sarah said as she pulled on her stockings.
“I know,” Annabelle said, sliding her arms into the long white gown that was to be her Egyptian costume. “How I longed for a sister when I was younger.” She reached for Sarah’s hand. “And now I have one.”
Sarah squeezed her hand back and smiled as they shared a look. “Sisters.”
With Annabelle offering guidance, the maid arranged Sarah’s hair into a pile of soft curls, with one long strand draped across her shoulder to curl just above the bodice of her gown.
“And powder,” Annabelle directed the maid, “so her hair’s lightened enough to be a moon color.”
“A moon color? When did you become so authoritative on made-up hair colors?” Sarah teased, though she’d watched proudly over the past weeks as Annabelle had bloomed with confidence.
“It must be the London air,” Annabelle said, and she winked.
Alice and Fiona arrived in a handsome coach to collect Sarah and Annabelle.
“Marcus and Rosamund have a new, fancy coach that I can’t wait to ride in,” Alice announced as the four rolled through London. “Rosamund says you hardly bounce at all in it when you roll over bumps. They’re bringing Kate tonight.”
“And not Jack?” Sarah asked as casually as she could. She’d hoped, since he lived only around the corner, that he might be coming in their carriage.
“He’s coming on his own,” Alice said.
They were hardly at the ball for ten minutes when a gentleman asked Sarah to dance. This was, in fact, her first time being asked by a gentleman who’d come to her all on his own, unlike the gentlemen in her debutante years who’d been prodded by her mother to ask her to dance. (She wasn’t counting that dance with Jack at the Winstonhurst ball, because he wouldn’t have asked her if he hadn’t felt it his duty, what with her being the cousin of his sister’s friend.)
The dancing was actually quite nice, and so was the gentleman.
Perhaps she could get used to this, Sarah thought as another gentleman, one dressed as a king, asked her for the next dance.
“Don’t you want to tell me your name, Lady Moonbeam?” he asked with a playful smile. “Or perhaps, being a king, I should order it.”
She laughed lightly. “I think not,” she said, and he pretended to thrust a dagger at his heart. Goodness, this was fun! She had long ago given up the idea that balls, or dancing, or anything to do with Society and its events, could be fun, but here she was, smiling like a
fool.
Perhaps, a little voice whispered, if she could wear a mask all the time, she’d always have gentlemen seeking her out. She ignored the little voice and let the music sweep her around the room, feeling that she was floating on a little cloud sent from heaven.
When the dance was over, her partner asked her for another dance later that evening, and she agreed. She still had a smile on her face as, looking over the crowd, she searched for Annabelle (or Alice, since they would likely be together if they weren’t dancing). She finally saw her dancing with a man wearing a toga, and she looked quite happy. Secure in the knowledge that her cousin was enjoying herself, Sarah decided to visit the ladies’ retiring room.
On the way back from the retiring room, she stopped in the corridor to look at a very fine painting of some dogs. The space was empty, the sounds of the ball a muffled cacophony of music and laughter, and it was nice to pause in the empty corridor for a few minutes, knowing that when she went back into the ball, it was not inconceivable that another gentleman might ask her to dance.
She was lost in thought as she looked at the painting, so when she heard someone offer a greeting from a fairly close distance, it startled her. She turned, and there was Jack.
He was wearing a black demi-mask, but she would have known it was him just from the shape of his lips and the style of his hair, even if he hadn’t been wearing the same highwayman costume he’d worn to the last masquerade. But then, she’d spent a great deal of time pondering his appearance.
“The moon, I presume?” he said.
Did he know who she was? From the way he was looking at her, and his bland greeting— he’d said only, “Good evening”—she didn’t think he did. The knowledge sent a little thrill through her. What would it be like to talk to Jack if he didn’t know who she was? Would it be any different? She couldn’t resist finding out.
“Lady Moonbeam to you,” she said, making her voice a little higher to disguise it.
He cocked his head. “There’s something familiar about you.”
“Do you think so?” she asked, forcing herself not to grin. “Perhaps, then, you know me.”
“I’m almost certain I do.” One corner of his mouth slid wolfishly upward. “Do I like you?”
Oh, Fate, Sarah thought, must you always tease me? “Of course.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I have the feeling my mask isn’t fooling you.”
“Perhaps you are right, my lord.”
“Ah,” he inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Then how shall I determine who you are?”
She smiled. Had she ever had this much fun in her life? No, she hadn’t. And she was going to enjoy every second of it.
“Guess,” she said, remembering to keep her voice disguised. But she was flirting with him! She, Sarah Porter, twenty-five-year-old Sarah Porter, on-the-shelf Sarah Porter, Sarah-with-the-nose-Porter—she was flirting with Lord Jack Hallaway, and he was flirting back!
Certainly they’d chatted before, and often at tea they teased each other, but this was different. The light in his eyes told her he was intrigued by her, and more than anything, she wanted that light to stay there.
He chuckled. “Very well.” He assumed a thoughtful pose, stroking his chin theatrically. “Francesca Gaitskill.”
Annabelle, who’d been informed by Alice on just about every member of the ton currently in London, and doubtless many who were not, had pointed Francesca Gaitskill out to Sarah at a musicale. She had dark hair—Jack clearly could not tell what color Lady Moonbeam’s powdered hair really was—and she was quite pretty.
“No,” she said.
He tapped his chin thoughtfully again. “Violet Candlewick.”
Another beauty. She shook her head.
“Jane Davenport?”
A very pretty young lady of nineteen who was reputed to be shy but quite accomplished at the pianoforte. Perhaps she ought to be pleased that he thought his mystery lady was so young and lovely, but Sarah was beginning to feel a little disappointed.
“No.”
“Georgeanna Taylor?”
“No.”
“Penelope Smart?”
“No.” No, no, no, she wanted to shout. Why did he have to name every other woman in the ton, each one with a completely unremarkable little nose—everyone but her? She’d wager he’d spent quite a bit more time with her in recent days than any of these other women, and yet she was clearly not on his mind.
And why should she be? She wasn’t the sort of woman a man like Jack would be thinking about, however much he might enjoy the occasional conversation with her.
Oh, it stung, and as he continued gamely listing ladies who weren’t her, something in Sarah snapped.
“I know,” he said triumphantly. “Celia Appleton.”
“Wrong again,” she said, but this time she didn’t bother to disguise her voice, and as his brows began to draw together, she pulled off her mask.
“Sarah?” he said, and the look on his face—she was certain it was disappointment—cut to her heart.
“Surprised?” she said in a voice that was quickly becoming tart.
“No,” he said slowly. “You disguised your voice. And your hair. But I knew there was something familiar about you, I just couldn’t figure out what.”
“That’s because you—” She stopped, knowing nothing good would come of saying what she really thought.
“Because I what?”
“Never mind.”
“Oh, I insist.”
“You have no right to insist.”
He frowned. “Why do I get the feeling I’ve offended you when I don’t know what I’m supposed to have done?”
“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “Because you never would have flirted with me if you’d known it was me.”
He looked stunned. “What? Why—” he began, but she didn’t want to hear anything more, because one of the things she liked best about Jack was that she’d never once felt he pitied her for her unfortunate nose, and she couldn’t bear it if he was going to start now.
“Just forget it,” she said, her face flaming. She turned away, intending to go back into the ballroom and lose herself among the other guests, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her around to face him.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” she said, tugging her arm. “Let me go.”
“No,” he said, and before she understood what he was doing, he’d pulled her toward the doorway to someone’s study—she supposed it must belong to Viscount Merrywether. He dragged her inside and shut the door behind them.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. The room was more shadowy than the corridor they’d just left, lit softly with only a few sconces. In the lower light, Jack looked like the highwayman he’d dressed as, all dark flashing eyes and wickedness, and within her, a pulse quickened.
He pulled off his mask and dropped it on a little round table, then crossed his arms, an expectant look on his face. “I’m waiting.”
“For what?” she said.
“For you to explain yourself.”
Sarah looked different tonight. Jack watched her bite the corner of her lower lip, taking her time responding to him. He’d got used to seeing her at tea in his mother’s sitting room. They were friends. She was the cousin of his sister’s good friend. He wasn’t supposed to look at her as a woman who might be a conquest.
Except, he did.
The soft way her hair was piled on her head in generous curls, one teasing lock resting beguilingly at the edge of her bodice, and that bodice that was much lower than anything he’d ever seen her wearing, and the crackling sparks in her hazel eyes—everything about her tonight seemed different. He’d thought about kissing her before, and he’d crushed those thoughts, completely inappropriate as they were to have about a family friend.
But something had shifted. She was different tonight, and suddenly he couldn’t recall what it had felt like to call her Miss Porter, because she was Sarah. And the t
houghts he was having about her were not friend thoughts.
She lifted her chin. “I don’t owe you any explanation.”
“I think you do. You seem to have some very strong ideas of what I might or might not do relative to you, and I think I have a right to know what gives you such confidence.”
Her brows drew together angrily, and she threw up her hands in an exasperated gesture. “Why are you pretending you don’t know exactly why you wouldn’t have flirted with me or asked me to dance, except out of duty? Or why, when you were guessing who I might be under the mask, you never guessed it was me? My nose, Jack. My nose is why.”
“Your nose?” he said. “Your nose may be distinctive, but it’s hardly the sort of thing to stop a fellow.”
“I beg your pardon,” she said, “but it’s exactly the sort of thing to stop a fellow. It has always been the thing to stop people when it comes to me.” She crossed her arms and glared at him. “You would be lying if you said it wasn’t the first thing you noticed about me when you saw me at that ball in Hampshire two years ago.”
“As I have explained numerous times, I hadn’t really seen you at that ball when I made that comment.” This was true insofar as he hadn’t seen her before he’d spoken those careless words. It was also true, though, that when she’d turned and he’d seen her face in profile, he’d noticed the strong shape of her nose. He hadn’t thought it a bad nose, just memorable. But in the mood she seemed to be in, he didn’t think she would really hear him if he tried to explain that.
“Fine,” she said, “at the ball at Boxhaven House, then. You can’t say you didn’t notice my nose then. It was surely what finally made you remember me and our earlier encounter.”
He stepped closer. Who would have thought Sarah Porter would be so fiery? And yet, why was he surprised? She was a woman of strong opinions.
She also smelled incredibly good. The floral scent he’d noticed before when they’d waltzed at the Winstonhurst ball made him think of a breeze gently ruffling a meadow full of wildflowers. Now, he caught a note of something soft and rich that he knew was simply her, and he breathed in, greedy for more.
A Rogue Walks into a Ball Page 12