Dangerous Masquerade

by Peta Lee Rose

  Dangerous Masquerade

  Regency Masquerade Book 1

  Peta Lee Rose

  For Noreen Ellen and Ellen Maree.

  With love, always. Peta

  Dangerous Masquerade

  Orphaned at 16. Married at 17. Widowed at 18. Destitute—or dead—at 19?

  To avoid either fate Ria St. James has to thwart her deceased husband’s nephew who intends to marry or murder her—either will do! She also needs to evade the determined pursuit of the Earl of Arden and contend with well-meaning matchmakers. Clearly, Ria needs a plan. And if it fails she could lose her heart, her life, or both.

  The Earl of Arden enjoys the life of a rake and has a particular liking for widows as they understand the rules of engagement. But his flirtation with Ria St. James does not go to plan. He never expected to become captivated by the widow. Nor did he expect to discover her life was in danger. Clearly, she needs his protection. And if he fails he could lose her forever.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  A note from Peta

  Also by Peta Lee Rose

  About Peta

  Prologue

  England, Little Bridgeton, August 1804

  Can your heart actually break? Honey wondered as the pain that had ripped through her chest and brought her to her knees began to subside.

  The words Luc had just yelled at her rang in her ears. “Stop following us. We don’t like you anymore. You’re a pest.”

  She watched the two boys race across the meadow toward the group picnicking under the trees. She bowed her head, hoping that if she couldn’t see them it would hurt less.

  It didn’t.

  A slow trickle of tears began to roll down her cheeks. Sensing something, she looked back up and saw Mr. St. James walking toward her. Quickly she brushed away her tears, but unfortunately they had companions who insisted on following the same path down her face.

  Mr. St James immediately saw the tears, and gently asked, “What’s wrong?”

  She looked at the picnic group, and he followed her gaze. “Oh. Something to do with the two young lords. What happened?”

  With an unladylike sniff, she looked up at him. “They won’t play with me. Last year they played with me all the time.” She stood up, rubbed furiously at the tears on her cheeks, and after another sniff asked, “What did I do wrong?”

  “Oh my dear, you did nothing wrong. You are eleven, and the difference in your ages, though only a few years, is showing. They are young men now.”

  “But…“

  “Those rapscallions have other things on their minds. Well, not their minds actually…” He thought for a moment, opened his mouth to say something but stopped, and strangely his cheeks went quite red. “Don’t worry. It will be different in a few years.”

  The boys were reclining on a rug, smiling up at three girls seated on chairs that had been placed under the tree by footmen. Luc was smiling in particular at Mary Evans.

  Honey frowned. “Last year Luc called Mary a wet goose. Why is he now looking at her like that?”

  “Ummm. It’s difficult to explain, but young men of that age go through a period where they don’t use their brains very much.” He then winked at her and added, “I know I didn’t, and I’m still young enough to remember that quite clearly.”

  Well, that made sense—anyone using his brains wouldn’t have that silly expression on his face when he looked at Mary.

  That’s what she liked about Mr. St. James. He explained things to her. Or tried to. He wasn’t always very good at it, and she didn’t always understand what he was saying, but at least he tried.

  Honey told herself that whatever was going on it didn’t matter. When she was older, Luc was going to smile at her the way he was now smiling at Mary. He was going to pay her lots and lots of attention—she just knew it as surely as she knew her name was Honoria Ruby Birdwell.

  Mr. St. James gave her a hug and said, “In a few years time they will be the ones chasing you and begging for your attention, so you can have your revenge then.”

  “I don’t want revenge. I just want Luc,” she said firmly. “I’m going to marry him.”

  His eyes widened, and there was a brief period of silence. Then, “Does he know that?”

  “Not yet, but he will,” she said with total confidence.

  “Why do you want to marry him?”

  Honey shrugged her shoulders before remembering a young lady did not do that. But Mr. St. James wouldn’t mind—or tattle on her.

  “I just know that I will,” she said. “As soon as I saw him, I knew. I thought he felt the same way. He listens to me and stops Devon from teasing me—I knew he would always be there for me.” Forlornly she added, “At least he was last year. Now…”

  “Well, my dear, until you marry Luc, I will listen to you and be there for you. Always. Never forget that. Now, shall we join the others?”

  She nodded. As they crossed the meadow, she gave another scrub at her face just in case there was still evidence of tears.

  When they reached the picnic, her mother and father saw her and smiled in welcome—though her mother’s smile turned to a frown when she saw the grass stains on her dress. With a sigh, her mother ignored them and patted the cushioned seat beside her, “Come and sit down, Honoria.”

  At the sound of laughter, Honey glanced over at Luc and the others. He was smiling at Mary in that besotted way again. As Honey rubbed her chest to ease the sudden stab of pain, she caught sight of Mr. St. James watching her.

  He mouthed the words, “Remember. Always.”

  1

  Little Bridgeton, November 1813

  Not one of the men met her criteria.

  The man she sought would be taller than her, not too slim nor too large, and dark-haired. He had an olive complexion and dark, forest-green eyes framed by thick eyelashes any woman would covet.

  Ria had never thought it would be this difficult. Tightly gripping her gold lace fan, she gazed around the ballroom fruitlessly, trying to find him.

  Flickering light from the beeswax candles showed masked guests dancing in the center of the room, surrounded by others chatting and laughing.

  Many of the revelers appeared to have descended from the mythological paintings in the ballroom ceiling. Their host, of course, was Bacchus, god of wine and giver of ecstasy. Ria was the only Persephone, her gold mask delicately embroidered with six scarlet pomegranate seeds. The same pattern was repeated in gold on the bodice of her ruby-red silk gown.

  At most masquerades masks did little to hide the identity of guests. Here, however, some people definitely wanted to be incognito. Like Ria, they went to great pains to hide their faces at this notorious annual bacchanal.

  As she looked around, she tried to appear unconcerned by the uninhibited behavior of the revelers. An
y sign of surprise in such company as this would bring attention to her. As an uninvited guest, that was the last thing she wanted.

  She once again searched the room for the one who met her criteria.

  She couldn’t see him.

  The handle of her fan dug into her palm. She could not fail. The ladies depended on her.

  Monty had given strict instructions as to what to do. Taking a deep breath, she searched again.

  She caught the eye of one of the male guests. A glance showed her that, superficially at least, he met the criteria. Though doubtful he was the one, she took a deep breath, then briskly walked toward the Mark Antony copy. As he watched her approach, he smiled. She stopped in midstride. He wasn’t the one.

  Just as she went to turn away, the man-sized potted palm he stood beside started to wobble for no apparent reason. He reached out and tried to stop it from falling, but with a resounding crash the pot toppled over, leaving him trapped beneath it.

  Ria watched as footmen hurried over, lifted the remains of the pot and battered palm, and helped him to stand. Apologizing profusely, they led Mark Antony from the room, leaving in their wake a trail of leaves and soil.

  With a deep sigh, she slipped past the massive mahogany doors into the adjoining refreshment room. This was where she should have been all along, but having no luck here, she had ventured into the ballroom. Pausing by the champagne fountain, she took a glass proffered by a servant.

  Ria turned at a sudden shriek and burst of laughter. A woman ran past her, around the champagne fountain and then bolted out the nearest door.

  Lord Arden smiled wryly as the shrieking shepherdess ran past him out the door, hotly pursued by a baying wolf. Clearly the masked guests were already suffering from the intoxicating effects of the wine.

  There were two types of guests at the earl’s bacchanal. Most were there to attend the masked ball, but a small select group was there only for the gambling. The gamblers, like Arden, were largely sober. Only a fool drank at the earl’s gaming tables. All of them, however, were prepared to brave a day’s travel in winter weather to relieve the frustration that had built up in the four months since the end of the London season.

  He leaned against the wall near the doorway, his fingers idly playing with the key in his pocket, given to him earlier by his host in case he decided to play games of a different sort.

  Arden turned his gaze back to the room, back to the masked woman in red who had attracted his attention. He straightened and his eyes narrowed. He had lost sight of her. Where was she?

  He nearly missed it, but in a second scan of the room, he caught a glimpse of her red gown—though she was almost totally hidden by a large statue.

  Arden relaxed back against the wall and watched as she peered out from behind the statue and looked around.

  Fascinated, he saw her glance at one particularly amorous couple, then hurriedly look away. Because of the mask it was hard to tell, but something in her manner convinced him she was embarrassed at their behavior. Surely not. Only women interested in striking up a liaison attended the earl’s masquerade ball. But then why was she hiding behind a statue?

  He looked at her again, surprised at the strength of his reaction to her. His immediate intense physical response was unusual. These days he preferred to make his seduction slow and easy, but not with this lady. As soon as he saw her, he had a primal urge to claim her.

  She looked around the room once again. This time with more purpose. As though she searched for someone.

  He frowned, surprised by what he felt at that thought. Surely he wasn’t jealous? He didn’t even know her.

  But he realized he soon would.

  As her gaze neared where he stood, he drew back into the corridor. He caught the eye of a footman resplendent in silver livery, his knee breeches and lace cravat reminiscent of an earlier period.

  Arden beckoned him over. “Convey my apologies to the earl and advise him I am withdrawing from gaming. Also, have bottles of champagne and supper placed in the southwest sitting room.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The footman bowed low and left to carry out his instructions.

  Arden then turned and reentered the room. It was time to meet a certain lady.

  Ria’s grip tightened on her wineglass. She was sure she was being watched but could not see anyone.

  She took another soothing sip of champagne. The wine, mixed with the herbs she had taken before the masquerade, had created a potent cocktail that trapped her anxiety behind a wall. She knew it was there—occasionally she could feel it flutter against the barrier—but it could not escape.

  Her senses were deliciously heightened. Sipping her wine, she savored the fruity flavor as though for the first time. Her body swayed in time to the music coming from the ballroom, and the air trapped beneath her ruby skirts swirled around and caressed her legs. She reveled in the sensation, in the soft, silky feel and lightness of her gown.

  From her safe position partially hidden behind a large statue, she once again surveyed the room.

  She envied the confidence and apparent ease with which the guests outrageously flirted. The ladies used their fans to advantage. With just a tilt and a flick, they informed their male companions of their desires. They then reinforced the message with a flutter that drew attention to the swell of breasts rising above their extremely low-cut necklines. Not to mention their raised nipples peeping from the diaphanous material of their gowns.

  Some were doing more than flirting. Her gaze was drawn back to the couple passionately kissing on a couch in the corner, hidden from the view of most people by a large potted palm.

  As she watched, the gentleman drew down the woman’s bodice and lightly stroked her breast. At his touch, the woman arched her back and gasped.

  Ria bent her head and took a hasty sip of wine. She was shocked by what she had seen but even more shocked by her body’s reactions. She fanned herself as her nipples hardened and breath quickened.

  Taking a deep breath, she surveyed the room, trying to avoid looking at the couple while curiosity and innocence warred within her.

  Innocence lost.

  Unable to help herself, she looked back at the lovers. The gentleman was now lavishing attention on the woman’s other breast. As Ria watched, the lady reached down and ran her fingers up and down over the bulge in the front of his trousers. He groaned, murmured something to her, then lifted her skirts and slipped his hand between her legs. Both the woman and Ria caught their breath.

  Blushing, Ria turned away, furiously fanning herself.

  Concerned the temptation to keep looking would be too much, she moved away from the protection of the statue. Just as she did so, a gentleman, his domino open to show his orange brocade waistcoat, tottered toward her. Even from a few feet away, she could smell the alcohol on his breath. Ria adroitly sidestepped him, skirted around the statue, and moved along the side of the room. But Orange Brocade did not give up. From the corner of her eye, she saw him turn, stumble over his long black cloak, then follow her.

  Just as she went past an antechamber, a long, black-clad arm reached out and gently gripped her wrist. Ria gasped as she was swiftly pulled into the small room.

  For a moment surprise held her motionless, but then she turned to look at the gentleman who held her in his grip. He was dressed all in black—black domino, black mask, and black waistcoat. Before she could take in anything more, Orange Brocade staggered into the antechamber.

  Black Domino said nothing. He merely released her wrist, moved in front of her, and stared at her follower.

  Orange Brocade peered at him, his bloodshot eyes clashing with his waistcoat. He paled, then abruptly turned and left, seeming rather more sober than before.

  Surprised at this quick exit, Ria gave her rescuer a thorough scrutiny.

  He was taller than her. His thick hair was a glossy black. Through the holes in his black silk mask, she could see his eyes were the dark green of the forest. He had an olive complexion and a strong jaw. An
d she knew that under the mask he had a face that was all angles and planes that together made an elegant whole.

  She’d found him.

  Ria resisted the urge to laugh as a heady mix of elation and relief swept over her, though it was soon slightly tempered by a dash of trepidation.

  She looked at him again, but nothing she saw could account for Brocade’s hasty departure. The man before her did not appear overly dangerous—an important consideration in view of her mission and his role. Brocade’s reaction and his air of assurance made her pause—but only for a moment.

  Remembering how the other women had used their fans, she flicked hers open and languidly waved it near her décolletage.

  As her rescuer continued to look at her without saying anything, she broke the silence, her voice huskier and deeper than usual due to the champagne and herbs. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  He inclined his head graciously. “You looked like you did not welcome his attentions, and he is known to be persistent.”

  She nodded, “Yes, he didn’t look like the sort to be discouraged easily. I fear he has been freely partaking of the wine.”

  “Most of the guests have. That’s to be expected by this hour. It’s unwise to be at this sort of affair alone and certainly once it grows late. Most people have coupled up by now.”

  At the implicit reprimand, she closed her fan with a snap and stiffly responded, “Thank you for your advice.”