by Martha Keyes
Lucy let out a sigh of relief. “What a shame it is that you must wear that dreadful mask and hood. But it is a masquerade.”
Ruth clasped Lucy’s hand gratefully, and the maid admired her one more time before helping her into the domino.
“If Topher returns, please tell him that I am out with Lord Oxley and shall be ready to leave first thing in the morning.” She doubted Lucy would see him. But just in case.
The Walthams’ townhouse was located in Grosvenor Square, making it an easy enough distance to walk. But in donning Lady Tipton’s dress, Ruth had lost her freedom to walk around Town alone, and it was as the grand mahogany clock chimed eight o’clock that a carriage slowed in front of the townhouse in Upper Brook Street.
Ruth clutched the mask in her hand, nerves flapping and fluttering in her stomach. Philip said he had taken his aunt into his confidences, but what exactly did that mean? What if the woman was scandalized when she saw Ruth?
But Mrs. Barham’s face was wreathed in smiles when Ruth stepped into the carriage, interest and fascination alight in her eyes.
“Miss Franks,” she said, and she looked behind Ruth as if expecting someone else. “Does your brother not join us, then?”
Ruth shook her head. “I believe he decided to spend the evening with a friend.”
“Ah.”
Ruth took a seat across from Mrs. Barham, and that grand lady searched Ruth’s face. “Marvelous! I would never have even suspected you to be the same person.” She reached over and lifted the hood of Ruth’s domino then smiled. “That hair suits you.”
Ruth was grateful for the dim lighting as her cheeks warmed. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Mrs. Barham gave the signal, and the carriage pulled forward. She continued to regard Ruth with interest, a little smile tugging at the corner of her rouged mouth. “All this time, I thought my nephew to be a pattern card of propriety, when he has been harboring the most wondrous secrets from us all.” She gave a delighted laugh.
Ruth tried to keep smiling, but the words struck her conscience. Philip was proper, and Ruth disliked the feeling that any aberration from his normal behavior should be laid at her feet. “I am afraid that mine is a secret he has been obliged to keep—not one he would have chosen if he had known the truth from the beginning.”
“Oh, nonsense.” She looked through the window as they approached Grosvenor Square. “It is high time he broke free from the Trent stranglehold. He is meant for much greater things than the stuffy nonsense with which they inculcated him.”
Ruth said nothing, momentarily dazzled by the light of the gas lamps which illuminated the Waltham residence. It was so very bright. Would she be recognized? Lucy had assured her that, with the hood and the mask, there was no chance at all of it, but she couldn’t help the nerves fluttering inside her.
“Come, child,” Mrs. Barham said, stepping down from the carriage, and the epithet made her feel cared for and protected even as she stepped into a world that was not her own. For one last time.
Mrs. Barham brought her handheld mask to her face and leaned over to speak in low tones. “I am here to do whatever strikes your fancy. My presence here lends propriety, just as Philip wished for, but you know how I feel about such things, and I assure you that I shan’t be a stick in the mud. The evening is yours, and I shall be quite content to introduce you to whomever you wish to dance with, all the while delighting in the delicious fact that no one here knows you as Mr. Ruth.” Her ill-stifled smile underlined her assertion, and Ruth managed a smile back, wondering what Mrs. Barham would think if she knew that the only person Ruth had any desire to dance with that evening was Philip.
Mrs. Barham gave their names to the servant at the door, and Ruth took in a steadying breath. She would do her best to enjoy herself.
Chandeliers full of tall, white candles illuminated the path to the grand ballroom, and Ruth gazed around in awe, while Mrs. Barham provided the names of various people in the room.
Even if the majority of the people hadn’t been wearing masks, Ruth doubted she would have recognized many of them. She was still woefully ignorant regarding the identities of those who frequented such gatherings as this one, and her eyes searched for the familiar—they searched for Philip. She hadn’t any idea what he was wearing, but she didn’t doubt she would recognize him, despite that.
And she did, with a leaping of the heart. Like Ruth’s own mask, his was black—dark enough that his hair looked lighter than usual in contrast. His matching black domino draped over his broad shoulders, and his mouth stretched into the contagious smile that made Ruth ache.
He seemed to be laughing in response to the man beside him, a stranger to Ruth. Though half of his face was concealed behind a white mask, the man was objectively handsome—perhaps most people would consider him more so than Philip. His dark eyes peered lazily through the narrow slits in the mask, and they held a glint in them that simultaneously intrigued and unnerved her.
“Ah, there is Philip,” said Mrs. Barham entirely unnecessarily. “And Finmore with him, of course. Shall we go over to them? Finmore will wish to dance with you, no doubt.”
Ruth shot a hand out to stop Mrs. Barham. “No, not just yet.” If Philip wanted to see her, he would find her. But this evening was always meant to be about him and Miss Devenish, and Ruth would not ruin that. “I thought we might see what refreshments they have. This is my first time at a masquerade, and I find that I am a bit nervous, which always makes my mouth terribly dry.”
Mrs. Barham patted her arm and smiled. “Of course. I quite understand.”
Ruth sent another sidelong glance at Philip, and she watched his eyes move to the door, neck craning slightly to look for Miss Devenish’s arrival, no doubt. Ignoring the twinge in her heart, Ruth walked alongside her chaperone toward the long tables that lined the far wall of the room. They were covered with white, lace-edged tablecloths and wreathed in flowers.
With a glass of ratafia in hand, she and Mrs. Barham found a space along the windowed wall, which looked out onto a candlelit terrace. Ruth sucked in a breath as the gaze of a masked man settled on her.
It was Munroe, and there seemed to be a glint of recognition in his eyes that sped her heart. But he turned his head away, and Ruth assured herself that she must have imagined it. She was far too much on edge.
The ballroom was filling quickly and the musicians strumming and tuning their instruments in preparation for dancing. Ruth had a feeling that Mrs. Barham wouldn’t allow her to merely watch from the walls. She would find her some partner or other, and Ruth would do her best to enjoy herself. She didn’t want to look back on her last evening in London wishing she had made a greater effort to take advantage of it.
She breathed in the scents of the ballroom—flowers, fruit tarts, candles, and hair pomade—and pulled her mouth into a smile. She would recount every detail of it to Joanna when she was back in Marsbrooke.
She took a sip of ratafia, letting her gaze take in the merriment around her, where couples whispered and smiled at one another, emboldened by the masks they wore. She choked suddenly, blinking quickly to focus through the water in her eyes.
Standing together in a corner of the ballroom in close conversation were Topher and Miss Devenish. He held her hand in his, just as he had done that day in the Park when Ruth had first discovered them.
How could Topher? And why? What could have possessed him to come? And to treat Miss Devenish with such familiarity after everything?
Ruth’s eyes flew to Philip, but his back was to them—he was unaware, just as he always had been. Just as Ruth had let him be. But certainly not for long.
Philip’s gaze met hers, and his mouth stretched into a smile. He took hold of Finmore’s arm, saying something in his ear, and Finmore’s eyes searched the room before landing on Ruth and narrowing in curiosity. He allowed Philip to pull him in their direction.
Ruth stifled the impulse to tidy her hair and dress—likely she would never rid herself of that irritating
desire to look her best for Philip.
The beginnings of a waltz strung out from the instruments, and couples moved to the ballroom floor. Out of the corner of her eye, Ruth was aware of Topher leading Miss Devenish there. Panic bloomed in her chest, even as she felt her head swim with the view of Philip’s smile directed toward her. His domino swished as he and Finmore came to a stop before the two women, and Ruth smelled that faint but unmistakable rush of amber.
“Aunt Dorothea. Miss Franks.” His eyes twinkled at her through the black mask, as if they had needed anything to accentuate what a beautiful combination of light brown and green they were. “Miss Franks, allow me to introduce you to my friend, Mr. Julius Finmore.”
Finmore stared at her with an intent, evaluative gaze and extended a hand. She hesitated a moment before offering hers to him, and he planted a kiss upon it, directing his eyes up at her from his stooped position, as if watching for her reaction to his dalliance.
She glanced at Philip, and the way he watched her, completely ignoring his friend’s flirtatious gesture as his own warm eyes rested upon her, made Ruth’s heart skip and stutter.
“Enough, Fin,” Philip said. He bowed gracefully, eyes never leaving Ruth’s. “Will you dance with me, Miss Franks?”
Ruth swallowed and glanced at Mrs. Barham, who looked on with a pleasant, indulgent expression. “Go on,” she said.
Ruth put her hand in Philip’s, hoping her legs would carry her to the dance floor, despite feeling as though they might give out at any second. She had never waltzed before—not in public. It would be considered fast of her, not that it mattered on her last night in London. No one even knew who she was.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said.
Philip looked down at her, the same warmth there in his eyes. “Do what?”
“Dance with me.” She looked away. “I believe your aunt intends to force some unsuspecting gentleman of her acquaintance into taking on that task.”
“But I don’t want other gentlemen to dance with you.”
She forced a laugh. What was he trying to do to her?
He led her to her place in the set and stood before her. “I am feeling selfish tonight.”
He took his place across the set from her, smiling, and she couldn’t help following suit, not daring to inspect his words more closely.
The dance began, and Ruth was grateful for his steadying hands—they kept her grounded, kept her near him as they turned about the floor.
He smiled down at her. “You look even more the little panda with that mask on.”
“And you the giant one.”
He laughed. “We are well matched, then.” There was a pause as they finished the figure, and he continued. “I thought you said you weren’t skilled at dancing. Yet another lie.”
Her smile wavered, and his gaze moved to her lips briefly. A rueful half-smile formed on his lips. “I have been waiting to dance with you since I arrived, but now that we are here, I find myself wishing to be alone rather than surrounded as we are now.”
And Ruth saw it there—the thing in his eyes which she had thought was her own feelings staring back at her, everything she had wanted him to feel almost since meeting him. She saw love.
They broke apart for the next figure of the dance, and Ruth caught sight of Topher and Miss Devenish on the other side of the ballroom floor. Panic dispelled the brief moment of hope inside her.
Clearly Philip hadn’t seen them yet. If he did, would he recognize Topher?
It didn’t matter. Ruth couldn’t continue deceiving him. She should have told him long ago. It might cost her three hundred pounds, but surely being poor was better than feeling the guilt and disgust with herself that she now felt?
They came together again, shoulder to shoulder, two hands joined in front. “Would you like to join me outside?”
She swallowed, stomach swirling with sickness as she thought how he would look at her when she told him the truth. But she nodded. It was now or perhaps never.
They moved away from the floor, and Ruth was vaguely aware of all the eyes on them, frowning at the strange behavior. If she looked as sick as she felt, perhaps the audience would believe she was near to fainting.
One gaze followed their progress with especial curiosity, and Ruth’s stomach clenched at the knowing glint in Mr. Munroe’s eyes.
Her hand was in Philip’s, and she was barely aware of anything but that fact as he led her out of the ballroom, down the stairs, through a room, and into the small garden courtyard. Cool evening air licked at the skin on Ruth’s face, but it brought little refreshment.
He led her toward the side of the garden where hedges grew as tall as him. “Here.” He turned to face her, still holding her gloved hand in his. “This is much more comfortable.”
Ruth’s heart thumped uncontrollably.
“When I saw you upstairs, I was surprised—I had been watching the door for your arrival ever since my own, but I must have missed it somehow.”
He had been watching for her? “Philip.” She forced herself to speak before her courage gave out. It would be too easy to stand here alone with him, letting him think she was better than she was. “I need to tell you something.”
He nodded. “And I you.” He put his other hand around hers, enveloping them as though they were small and precious.
Hesitation nipped at her, binding her tongue with the same contradictory reluctance and urgency that bound her heart.
“Wait.” He pulled at his mask down and set it in his lap, redirecting his gaze at her. “I want to see you.” He put a gentle hand to her head and pushed back the hood of her domino. His hand paused as his eyes roved over her hair and face, pinning her in place, then reached his hand back behind her head and gave a soft tug on her mask strings, sending shivers down her spine as the silk ribbons slipped down the bare skin of her back beneath her domino, dress, and chemise.
He let his hand cup the back of her head, and she felt every shred of power slip away as his eyes locked on her lips, the same longing in them that Ruth had been feeling for weeks.
“I have been waiting—wanting—to finish what we twice began.” His other hand slipped around her waist, and Ruth struggled for the briefest moment before letting her eyes close, no longer fighting what she wanted more than anything to give into.
Muted voices from the ballroom floated above them, and Ruth felt Philip’s face nearing hers, as if her body was attuned to his movements as much as to her own. The hand at her waist pulled her closer, and she ceded to it willingly.
They had touched many times, but for so long, it had been masculine—jabs with an elbow, helping her hold a pistol, bracing grips on the shoulder. But now, Philip held her like a woman, and with that first soft touch of the lips that made her shiver, he kissed her like a woman—with care and need and tenderness, his lips exploring hers gently, his hand holding her against him just as they had done in the drawing room.
Only this time, he didn’t let go. He anchored her to him, where she belonged, and he kissed her. And she kissed him back, hoping that he could feel her love for him through it, just as she had told him a kiss should do.
Footsteps sounded behind Ruth somewhere, followed by voices, growing louder.
“There he is!”
Ruth and Philip broke apart, heads whipping toward the source of the interruption.
Unmasked, Munroe stood in the doorway that led from the house to the garden, the sneer of victory on his face.
Philip stood beside Ruth, holding her hand, even as unfamiliar faces gathered behind Munroe.
“What do you want, Munroe?”
Munroe’s mouth tugged up on one side, the lopsided smile enhancing his smugness. “So she caught you after all.”
Philip grasped Ruth’s hand tighter, and she struggled to breathe evenly.
“The Swan,” Munroe clarified, raising his voice far louder than was necessary to make it heard. “The woman who’s been parading herself around town dressed as a man fo
r the last month, swindling us all—and none more than you, Oxley.”
Murmurs sounded, and Ruth realized that there were people on the terrace up above.
Philip laughed caustically. “Says the man who challenged a woman to a duel.”
Munroe’s smile faded, turning back into a sneer. “I cannot be blamed for that, surely.” He looked at Ruth. “Not when she looks more boy than woman. Perhaps I should have known, though, by her cowardice.”
Philip started toward Munroe, but Ruth held him back.
His chest rose and fell. “If your idea of honor is challenging women and boys to duel you, then you and I are even more different than I believed us to be, Munroe.”
Munroe made a sweeping bow, looking up at the people who were congregating up on the terrace. “A compliment if I ever heard one. I admit, I am surprised to find that you knew Ruth was a woman this whole time, but I am more surprised to find you kissing the minx who’s been leading you such a dance and making you look a fool.”
Ruth’s heart sank, and she pulled Philip back as he tried to lunge toward Munroe. But she was no match for his strength, and he broke away from her, reaching Munroe in two long strides and punching him in the face.
“Ruth!” Topher’s voice rang out from the terrace above, and she glanced up at him. He was hand in hand with Miss Devenish.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Philip’s knuckles stung, and he clenched his hand to numb the pain. Munroe had fallen back into the arms of Mr. Archer and another man, but he threw their supportive hands off and put a hand to his bleeding nose.
He glanced at his bloody thumb then chuckled. “So you don’t know. Then you have my sympathies, Oxley.”
Philip backed up a few steps, reaching his hand for Ruth’s again. If Munroe wished for a duel, Philip would gladly accept. At least this time he wouldn’t be forcing Ruth into it.
“Do you want to tell him? Or shall I?” Munroe was speaking to Ruth, and he shrugged his shoulders. “He can look up there and see for himself, I suppose.” He pointed lazily up above them, and Philip glanced up at the terrace, where a dozen people stood.