Lady Isabella's Ogre

by Emily Larkin

  “Where did you get it?” Gussie reached out to touch the mask with one finger.

  “A costumier near Drury Lane.”

  “It’s perfect,” Isabella said again. “Absolutely perfect.” She meant more than the mask. The major was thumbing his nose at the ton and at the same time joining them in their laughter.

  Very few men would have either the wit or the courage to do that.

  “It seemed . . . apt,” the major said. His face was hidden behind the mask, all but his mouth and chin.

  He had a very nice mouth, Isabella realized. An expressive mouth, with nicely shaped lips. A mouth that, right now, was quirked up at the corners, as if he barely held back laughter.

  Bless you for having a sense of humor, Major. There could be no more ridicule after tonight, not after Major Reynolds had invited London to laugh with him.

  His eyes, green and glittering behind the mask, examined her costume—the elaborately upswept hair bound with gold ribbon, the tiny golden corn sheaves dangling from her earlobes, the gown of cream satin falling to her ankles in long, sheer pleats, its bodice bound with golden cord, the delicate Grecian sandals. His eyes lingered a moment on her gilded toenails and then rose to inspect the staff she held, crowned with gold-painted corn sheaves and intricately bound with golden ribbon. “Demeter,” he said.

  “Well done, Major.”

  Viscount Washburne emerged from the crowded dance floor, splendid in a huntsman’s costume, a wolf skin thrown over his shoulders. “The quadrille,” he said to Gussie, holding out his hand to her. He glanced at Major Reynolds and his eyes widened. For a moment he stared, and then he uttered a crack of laughter. “Magnificent!”

  Major Reynolds grinned. “Thank you.”

  Gussie put down her basket of strawberries. She took her husband’s hand. “Make sure he has some punch,” she said over her shoulder, as Lucas Washburne pulled her onto the dance floor.

  “Punch?”

  “A Worthington tradition,” Isabella said. “You must try it. It’s . . . Well, you shall judge for yourself.”

  His mouth quirked again in amusement. “That good?”

  “Better!”

  “Then I must certainly try it.” He held out his arm to her. “If you’ll lead me to it?”

  They strolled slowly around the perimeter of the room to the accompaniment of the quadrille. The familiar tune had an edge to it, a slight wildness not found at more formal balls. The dancers caught the mood of the music. Isabella watched them for a moment, enjoying their gaiety, before turning her attention to the guests clustering the edges of the dance floor.

  Satisfaction grew in her breast with each indrawn breath, each startled gaze, each choke of laughter, each low-voiced murmur of admiration that Major Reynolds’ mask evoked. “Major,” she said, in a low voice. “You are a genius.”

  “Taken the wind out of their sails,” he murmured, inclining his head to a rather portly Robin Hood.

  The table that bore the deep, silver punch bowl was crowded with revelers. It took some minutes before they were able to procure glasses.

  Major Reynolds looked at his glass dubiously. Sliced strawberries and oranges floated in the punch. “It’s pink,” he said. “Are you certain—?”

  “Try it!”

  His lips twisted in amusement. She thought she saw a gleam in the eyes hidden behind his mask.

  The major’s first sip was tentative. His second was not. “The deuce!” he said, examining the punch more closely. “What have they put in it?”

  “It’s probably best if one doesn’t know,” Isabella said, raising her own glass to her lips.

  The punch was potent, slightly sweet, slightly tart, cool in her mouth and hot in her throat. She swallowed, feeling warmth spread beneath her skin. Dangerous to drink too much, she told herself.

  After the quadrille came a waltz. Isabella leaned her staff against a wall and allowed Major Reynolds to lead her onto the dance floor. They made their bows and then came together, his hand at her waist, hers on his shoulder. She’d worn no gloves tonight, for the veracity of her costume, and neither had he. She was aware of the heat of the major’s palm, the strength of his fingers. Their handclasp felt surprisingly intimate.

  The Worthingtons’ waltz was no staid Almack’s dance, but something far more exhilarating and fast-paced. The musicians plied their bows with ever increasing speed. Major Reynolds kept time with the music, whirling her around the dance floor until she was breathless and laughing. He retained hold of her hand when they halted, steadying her. “More punch?” he asked, as he escorted her from the dance floor.

  Recklessly she nodded.

  Dance followed dance until Isabella lost all track of time. She saw Major Reynolds frequently on the dance floor: the brown coat, the mane of shaggy black hair, the scowling ogre’s mask. From the set of his mouth, he was enjoying himself.

  The heat in the ballroom rose. The punch bowl was frequently emptied. Eyes glittered behind masks, cheeks were flushed, and mouths were wide with laughter. The knight removed his gauntlets, gorget, and breastplate. Sweat stained his undergarments.

  Isabella ate a supper of lobster patties and white soup and returned to the ballroom to dance again.

  “Where’s your staff, Demeter?”

  The voice was familiar: Major Reynolds.

  Isabella turned. “I have no idea!” she said, laughing up at him. “I’ve lost it!”

  “For shame,” he said.

  The mask was grotesque above his grinning mouth. For a moment the wrongness of it almost made her dizzy. Such a strong, well-formed body, such a hideous, deformed head. Take it off, she wanted to say, but she bit the words back. Too much punch, she scolded herself silently. I must drink no more.

  “The next dance is to be a waltz,” Major Reynolds said. “And then I believe fireworks will follow.”

  “Isabella!”

  Another familiar voice, and this one far from welcome.

  Isabella lost her smile. She turned. “Sarah. Have you met Major Reynolds?”

  She made the introductions with cool politeness, but if Sarah Faraday noticed the coolness she made no move to leave. She was well on the way to being intoxicated, her laugh too loud, her words slurring, her face red above the green ruff encircling her neck.

  Isabella glanced down at Sarah’s dress. What was she? The gown was a profusion of green frills, layer upon layer of them, thickening her already stout figure.

  “How charming you look together,” Sarah Faraday said. “Beauty and the Beast!”

  Isabella looked up from her perusal of the green gown. “Demeter and an ogre, actually,” she said coldly. “What are you? A cabbage?”

  She regretted the words as soon as she’d uttered them, too spiteful, too petty, but Sarah Faraday failed to notice the insult.

  “A dryad.” She pirouetted, almost falling over in the process, the dozens of frills flaring out, making her look even stouter. “Dressed in spring leaves.”

  “Very original,” Major Reynolds said, politely.

  Very cabbage, Isabella thought.

  The musicians struck up the waltz. “Excuse us,” Major Reynolds said, holding out his hand to Isabella. “This is our dance.”

  Isabella let him lead her onto the dance floor. “Beauty and the Beast!” she said, her voice sharp. “If she starts putting that around London—”

  “It’s a compliment,” the major said, sounding amused. “For you, at least.”

  “But you’re not a beast, any more than you’re an ogre!” Anger made her tone hot. “And if she—”

  “You sound like my nephew.” Major Reynolds was smiling at her. “And I shall give you the same answer I gave him: I can fight my own battles.”

  “But—”

  “Ignore her.”

  “Yes, but what if she—”

  “I don’t care.” Major Reynolds tugged her closer. “Dance,” he said in her ear.

  Isabella pursed her lips. “Is that an order, Major?”
/>   “Most definitely.”

  Her ill-humor slid away. “An autocrat, I perceive.”

  He grinned at her, his teeth glinting white beneath the scowling ogre’s mask, and tightened his grip on her hand. “Of the worst kind,” he said, and swept her into the waltz.

  Chapter Eleven

  The music bore no resemblance to the waltzes he was used to dancing in London. It was wild and fast, almost Bacchanalian. The musicians’ exuberance was infectious. Nicholas heard the music in his ears, felt it in his blood. Dance faster, it urged. Faster. Lady Isabella must have felt the music, too; she matched him step for step as he led her into one flamboyant turn after another. They were both laughing by the time the musicians laid down their bows. Their hands clung together for a moment as they steadied one another. Nicholas dragged air into his lungs and bowed. “Thank you, Lady Isabella.”

  “Not at all,” she said, fanning herself with a hand. “You’re an excellent dancer.”

  “As are you.” He offered her his arm. “A drink, ma’am?”

  “Please!”

  The line to the punch bowl was long. Lady Isabella’s cheeks were flushed beneath her golden mask. She fanned herself again. “You enjoy dancing,” she said, in her clear, frank way. “And yet you give the impression of a man who dislikes attending balls.”

  “It’s not balls I dislike,” Nicholas said, wishing he could remove his mask. He was so damned hot. “It’s the Marriage Mart. I feel like a beast up for sale at an auction, being examined by prospective buyers.”

  Her face lit with laughter. “How uncomfortable!”

  He shrugged, knowing he’d dislike it less if he didn’t have the scar blazoned across his face, but not willing to make that admission aloud.

  Lady Isabella’s smile faded. “You’re correct, Major. That’s precisely what it is: an auction. I’m glad to be out of it.”

  I will be, too.

  They had barely received their glasses when there was a stir of movement behind them, a rise in the babble of voices. Nicholas turned his head and watched as liveried footmen flung open the French windows lining the far side of the ballroom.

  Glasses in hand, they joined the drifting crowd out onto the terrace. Flambeaux burned and lamps lit the gardens. The cool night air was welcome on his chin. Nicholas inhaled deeply and wished it was time to unmask. Perspiration trickled down his cheek.

  The hell with it.

  He put his glass down on the stone balustrade and reached up and pulled the ogre’s mask off his head.

  The air was cold on his face, refreshing, welcome. He closed his eyes in a moment of sheer enjoyment.

  “Much better, isn’t it?”

  He opened his eyes to see that Lady Isabella had untied her golden mask and was using it to fan her cheeks.

  “Yes.” He wiped his face with one hand and ran his fingers through his hair. It was damp with sweat.

  “Look!” someone cried behind him. “They’re starting!”

  At the sound of the first explosion, the ballroom emptied of guests. The terrace became a jostling mass of people, pressed close to one another, laughing and exclaiming as the fireworks lit the sky. Nicholas was more conscious of Lady Isabella alongside him than he was of the display of pyrotechnics. She felt soft, warm . . .

  Nicholas gave himself a mental shake and drained his glass of punch. He gazed up at the bright cascade of sparks tumbling in the sky. Around him people cried out in delight, clapping their hands.

  The fireworks display over, the terrace slowly emptied, the guests drawn back into the ballroom by the light and the warmth and the lilting strains of music. Lady Isabella made no move to leave the terrace. She leaned her forearms on the balustrade and gazed out over the garden. London was several miles distant; the lights and clamor didn’t intrude here. The garden was dark but for a sprinkling of lamps. It was an enchanted landscape of shadows and flickering flames.

  Nicholas stayed beside her, breathing in the cool air. Pleasure hummed in his veins. He felt careless, reckless, exuberant. He knew why: the punch. The stuff was lethal.

  They weren’t alone; a few others lingered on the terrace, to converse, to flirt lightly with one another, and in the case of a young buck dressed in striped stockings and a jester’s hat, to sit groaning with his head in his hands.

  “Are you enjoying your triumph, Major?”

  The ogre’s mask sat on the balustrade, alongside his empty glass. Nicholas tapped the papier-mâché cheek, sculpted in scarlet whorls, with one finger. “Yes.”

  Lady Isabella laughed softly.

  He turned his head to look at her. She shone in the moonlight, pale and golden. “Why Demeter?” he asked. Why not Venus?

  Lady Isabella touched one of the golden earrings in a reflective gesture. It spun, catching the light of a flambeau, gleaming. “A suitor of mine once wrote a poem. ‘To the harvest goddess with her corn-ripe hair.’”

  Nicholas uttered a crack of laughter. “Good Lord!”

  Lady Isabella was unoffended. She grinned.

  “Who was it?” Nicholas asked, before he could catch his tongue.

  “Brabington.”

  “Brabington?” Nicholas said, startled. “The duke?”

  Lady Isabella nodded.

  “Why . . . ?” He hesitated a moment, aware the question was impertinent, and then plunged onwards, knowing his recklessness was due to the punch, but not caring. It was a night for stepping beyond boundaries. The music streaming from the wide-open windows urged it; Faerie music, spiraling up into the night sky, wild and lilting and as intoxicating as the punch. “Why haven’t you married?”

  Lady Isabella’s eyebrows lifted, but she didn’t appear to be offended. “Because I haven’t wished to.”

  “But . . .” He halted, stuck for words. Didn’t every woman want to marry? And then he remembered: “Your fiancé died,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Roland? Yes. He died a month before we were to be married.” She looked down at the empty glass in her hand.

  “That must have been hard,” he said quietly.

  “It was,” she said, but he heard no melancholy in her voice, saw none in her downturned face. “But it was eleven years ago, so don’t picture me with a broken heart, for that’s not the case!” Her expression grew thoughtful. “In fact, I’ve often thought it was fortunate the wedding didn’t take place. Not fortunate that Roland died! But fortunate I didn’t marry him.” She glanced at him, and uttered a laugh. “I’ve shocked you, Major.”

  “Not at all,” Nicholas said, although her words had taken him aback. “Er . . . why was it fortunate?”

  “Poor Roland had no sense of humor. A necessity, I believe, in a marriage.” She met his eyes, her tone serious, “Don’t mistake me, Major. I was in love with Roland—as much as a child of eighteen can be!—but I’m no longer wearing the willow for him.”

  “But you haven’t married.”

  “No doubt I would have, if my father hadn’t died so soon after Roland, and then my mother . . . She was very ill, and by the time she passed away I was twenty-four and quite used to making my own decisions, and I found that I didn’t want to marry. Fortunately she left me a sizable fortune, so I didn’t have to.”

  Nicholas frowned at her. “Your brothers allowed you to set up house by yourself at twenty-four?”

  “With Mrs. Westin, yes.”

  Lady Isabella was looking at him with some amusement. She thinks me a stick-in-the-mud.

  “And Brabington? What was wrong with him?”

  She lifted her smooth shoulders in a shrug. “I didn’t wish to marry him.”

  “But . . . a duke!”

  Her expression became slightly exasperated. “Pray, what has that to do with it?”

  Nicholas stared at her. He shook his head, not understanding.

  “‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a husband,’” Lady Isabella said, her tone ironic.

  Ni
cholas blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “A paraphrase.” She put her glass down on the balustrade. It made a dull clunk on the stone. “The world expects me to want to marry. Well, I don’t! I like my life precisely how it is.”

  “Do you dislike men?” he asked, trying to understand, and failing.

  “No, not at all! But I have no need for a husband of my own.”

  “But—”

  “Why should I trade my liberty and my independence for a husband’s name? What would I gain?”

  He looked at her, standing pale and golden in the moonlight, the mask with its dark, empty eyes dangling from one finger. “Children?” he ventured.

  “My life isn’t empty of children,” Lady Isabella said. “I have twelve nephews and nieces.”

  “Oh,” he said. Her words rang in his ears. Liberty. Independence. Perhaps that was what made her shine so much brighter than the other women of the ton. She belonged to no one but herself. Within the strict confines of Society, she danced to her own tune.

  If she were crushed into a mold—wife, mother—would she cease to shine so brightly?

  Nicholas turned his head and frowned down at the shadowy, lamplit garden. Had Gussie become less of herself when she’d married? Would his own bride?

  A groan drew his attention. The jester staggered to his feet, his hand clapped over his mouth.

  Nicholas grabbed his mask, hastily took Lady Isabella’s arm, and guided her further down the terrace. The jester reached the balustrade where they’d stood and leaned over it, noisily casting up his accounts.

  It was quieter here, darker. One of the flambeaux had guttered out. They had fewer companions.

  Nicholas placed the ogre’s head on the balustrade again. The papier-mâché mask scowled at him. “Is marriage wholly repugnant to you?”

  “I wouldn’t say repugnant, Major. Merely . . . it holds no temptations.”

  But what of physical desire? Nicholas held his tongue; it wasn’t a comment he could make.

  Lady Isabella turned the golden mask over in her fingers. He watched her frown. “I will own that there’s one drawback to my situation: I must rely on my friends to provide me with an escort.”