Why not?
He might want to come.
Oh no. She pushed that aside. Foolish hopes and dreams were just too painful.
“If he comes, he comes,” she said briskly, knowing that if a dark-clad monk appeared tonight, she’d quite likely faint.
Elf carried the box up to her rooms and summoned Chantal. When the maid came, Elf gave her the package and rather enjoyed the shriek of horror when it was opened. “Milady . . . no. Please!”
“Definitely not. But don’t throw it away, Chantal. It holds memories.”
Then Elf turned to look at her costume for the night. Layers of filmy silk swirled in brown and yellow, making up a loose gown to be daringly worn without hoops or corset. A kind of harness over her shoulders was included, however, to support the diaphanous wings.
Her mask was also yellow and brown, and included delicate gold antennae.
She was going to the masquerade as a wasp.
They held no formal dinner on the night of the masquerade, but Elf and the other Mallorens in residence—Portia, Bryght, Brand, and Rothgar—were invited to dine with the king and queen and their senior attendants. This inconvenient honor necessitated a grande toilette of its own. Elf attended in massive hoops that supported deep blue silk and a lot of silver embroidery and lace.
It was as well that tonight she didn’t need to chatter over awkward moments, for her mind was almost numb with panic. The king and queen, however, neither of them normally garrulous, wanted to talk about babies. Portia and Bryght were happy to support that conversation. They even managed to do so without implying that their child was even prettier and cleverer than Prince George.
Elf, seated between Lord Hardwicke and Lady Charlotte Finch, was relatively comfortable, though she could hardly stomach a mouthful of food.
Would he come?
What would he wear?
Had that costume been a message? Should she wear it?
No. No matter what his intent, she would not wear it. That belonged in another life.
But was Lisette the only aspect of Elf Malloren that really interested him?
As soon as the event finished, she hurried to put on her wasp costume. Part of her urgency was practical, for she should be available to deal with any last-minute problems. Mostly, however, she felt that the sooner she was dressed, the sooner it would begin, and the sooner she would learn her fate.
Gown, corset, hoops, and headdress were quickly disposed of. Elf looked in the mirror at her undisguised shape covered only by her white silk shift and experienced a sudden blinding vision of another mirror.
When Chantal, in a dark gown, appeared behind her, she almost shrieked with shock.
“Milady! What is it?”
Elf put a hand to her unsteady chest. “Just nerves, Chantal. Don’t ask why, but I am all on edge. Come, let’s make me ready to sting.”
She discarded her white shift and put on one of flesh-colored silk. The wing harness went on next, fixed securely around her shoulders. Then the fine silk slipped on top. It had been dyed to her order, not precisely in rings of yellow and brown, but in a swirling pattern. The skirt floated in a ragged end around her bare calves, and for shoes, she wore simple sandals of a Grecian design.
She’d tried on the gown before without any unease but now, Fort in mind, she felt overbold. No lady exposed her figure in public so close to its natural state. Even the most brazen whore wore corset and hoops.
She ran her hands dubiously past waist and over hips. Her breasts were so shamelessly round. The shape of the nipples could be seen. “What do you think, Chantal?”
The maid’s eyes opened in surprise. “But, milady, it is magical! Everyone will be entranced.”
“You don’t think it . . . bold?”
The maid firmly turned her from the mirror. “Not at all. There will be others there in classical style or dressed as fairies. Come sit, and I will put on the wings and headdress.”
Remembering the lady at Vauxhall—the one who’d dressed as Titania and had trouble with her wings—Elf had consulted people at the Drury Lane theater about the design of hers. She wished to be comfortable. Chantal carefully attached the sparkling shapes of wired gossamer to the harness. Elf felt no additional weight and when she stood, she was hardly aware of them. Even some dancing steps did not make them wobble or come loose.
“Excellent!” she declared, and risked another look in the mirror. They really were delightful wings—noticeable, pretty, but not so large as to be inconvenient. She refused to study other things again.
“Sit, milady!” commanded Chantal. “We must do the head.”
Again the mask covered half Elf’s face, but this time secured by a gold filigree cap which included the antennae. When she looked in the mirror again, she smiled. It really was a wonderful costume. The mask, again made in the theater, had large black eyes, just like an insect’s. With the antennae and wings the whole effect—though wildly fanciful—was indubitably wasplike.
And, suddenly, it was right. This, including the body revealed, was an important part of Elfled Malloren, a part she did not want to deny.
“C’est bien,” she said softly.
“Bien sûr, milady,” said Chantal.
Of course, everything was in perfect readiness.
Elf wandered restlessly through the chain of deserted reception and anterooms and into the grand ballroom hung with ribbons and greenery. The number of candles in the chandeliers had been reduced in order to give a kind of mystery to the place, but bright lights surrounded one corner. The corner containing the new automaton.
Very different from the disastrous one, this was a silver tree with bright enameled leaves. On every branch sat tiny feathered birds, some in nests, some poised as if ready to fly. At the base, leaning against the trunk, a shepherd and shepherdess sat cheek to cheek.
Elf found the switch and it sprang into life, filling the air with birdsong. The birds all moved, some just to turn a head or open a beak, but a few to stretch and flap their wings. Then the shepherd and shepherdess sprang to life. His hand rose to rest on her shoulder, and both heads turned so that lips gently touched lips.
Then they slowly moved back to their original positions and the whole thing settled back into silence.
“Do you think they ever curse the clock maker who gave them so short a spring?”
Elf swung around to find Fort behind her. For a moment he looked almost distant, but then a smile began, and grew, until it was controlled. His lids lowered secretively.
Elf studied him hungrily, heart pounding. No monk tonight. Was that significant? He still wore black, however, the rich sleek black of a Renaissance gentleman, puffed in satin, hung with jet.
What should she read into that? “An assassin” she guessed, wanting to say so much more, but not sure where to start.
“Not at all.” He dug in his short puffy breeches and produced a small skull. “The gloomy Dane.” Pure, wonderful mischief twinkled in his eyes, and she bit her lip on a laugh, on joy she could not trust as yet.
“I do hope you don’t see Rothgar as your wicked uncle.”
“Rather that than peevish Laertes, or sententious Polonius.” His eyes passed briefly, appreciatively, over her. “I’m delighted to see you haven’t taken yourself to a nunnery, Vespa.”
“Just to good works.” Needing to move, Elf walked away from the automaton and caught a glimpse of Portia—dressed as Good Queen Bess—anxiously peeping around the door. Portia hastily disappeared, and Elf heard a masculine laugh. Doubtless Bryght teasing his wife for being a worrier.
Were they all out there, all her protectors, making sure Fort didn’t murder her?
She took his hand and with a conspiratorial look, drew him behind a screen of pine boughs. It concealed a side door. She tugged him through it and along a corridor.
As busy servants pressed aside to let them pass, he said, “Do I get to ask questions?”
“Just one.”
They’d paused at the bo
ttom of some narrow servants’ stairs. “Are you happy?”
Elf turned. What answer should she give? If she said yes, he might assume that she didn’t want to change her situation, didn’t want him. But at this point, she could only be honest. “Yes. All in all, I am.”
Then she pulled him on up the stairs.
At the top, she opened the door into the corridor that led to her rooms.
“Where are we going?”
“One question, remember?”
“It’s just that I left my rapier at home, and I am in the den of the Mallorens.”
“At least Cyn is an ocean away.” She opened the door to her bedroom.
“For which I give sincere thanks.” He closed the door, but stayed there, against it. “I didn’t come here to seduce you, Elf.”
It hurt, so she hit back. “I don’t expect you to. We’ve done the penny whore down at the docks, haven’t we?”
He closed his eyes. “I see I have much to make up for.”
Oh God, her unruly tongue! She took his hand. “No! I’m just in a state of nervous insanity. Don’t pay any attention to me.”
He smiled. “Impossible. That’s an unignorable costume. I’ve never before thought insects quite so erotic.”
Glad for a mask to hide her burning cheeks, Elf looked him over in turn. “Yours does show your legs to advantage . . . Lud!”
She’d finally noticed his codpiece. Discreetly embroidered in black, it had not stood out from his velvet puff-breeches in the dim light of the ballroom. Now, the long horn-shaped bulge snared her attention.
“Our forefathers were a boastful lot, weren’t they?” he commented, and his narrow mask did reveal a flush on his cheeks. “Actually, it’s rather useful. For example, it disguises the fact that I’m big and hard just looking at you. Satin breeches can be damned embarrassing at times.”
“But informative.” She looked at him intently. “I’ve missed you. It’s just that . . . that I’m not sure who’s come back.”
He took her hand to kiss it. “A better man, I think. But yes, you must find out for yourself. Does that preclude a kiss or two?”
She shook her head. “Any gentleman may be allowed that.”
“Really? Methinks you are too free with your favors, my lady.” But he was teasing, and his lips silenced her retort.
Elf relaxed into his embrace, relishing a kiss so like their last one—gentle and friendly—but experiencing again the rapid surge of desire that plagued her with this man.
His hands played restlessly over the silk gown. “This is a damnable thing to sting a man with, Vespa. Especially one who’s been celibate for far too long . . .” His hands slid up her ribs and both thumbs flicked over her nipples, only covered by two thin layers of fine fabric.
Elf stiffened under a sharp jolt of desire, and reached for him. But he stopped and drew her into his arms. “No. We know we can drive each other mad with our bodies. We need to talk about other things.”
That sounded ominous. Had he come just to tidy up loose ends before pursuing Lydia?
Before she could speak, he added, “Honestly. As ourselves. Whoever those selves may be.”
Then she understood him. “You want us to meet without disguises?”
“Yes. Beautiful as you are as Vespa, exciting as you are as Lisette, and charming as you are as a man, when we talk about serious matters, I want it to be us.”
“Naked in the cellars?” She’d do it too if he wanted it, and surely his words were grounds for hope.
He laughed, shaking his head. “I never have decided if that was the ultimate truth or just another illusion. No, we presumably are going to live our lives as lord and lady, as Elf and Fort.”
“We’ve never met like that, have we? We were Malloren and Ware.”
She pushed aside delirium to consider it all. He was right. There was more to a life than games and lust. They needed to talk. “When?”
“When else but at dawn?”
“At twenty paces?”
Humor creased his eyes. “We’d have to shout. You can choose weapons, though, as long as it isn’t knives.”
“Truth.”
He nodded. “And the location?”
“Here, of course.”
“Formidable, indeed. I depend on you to defend me from rampaging Mallorens. And to come without seconds.”
He slipped out of the room and Elf sat with a thump. He was back and, she thought, healed. He was capable of laughter and joy in season.
But would it be with her?
The masquerade was a huge success. The king and queen, presumably by design, were dressed as the shepherd and shepherdess beneath the mechanical tree. When it was formally presented to George as a Christmas gift, he applauded with delight, then kept the lads designated to wind it busy all night.
Fort appeared to have left, for which Elf gave thanks. She’d love to dance with him, but she was having trouble enough keeping her mind on practicalities. She just wanted the event over and the arrival of dawn. If she could have wound the spinning earth and sun like a mechanical toy and made it go faster, she would have done.
She was pleased Amanda was here with Stephen, for Amanda and Portia were the only two people she felt could begin to understand her feelings. Even Amanda and Portia, however, could not guess what Fort had in mind.
At midnight, the masks came off, and disguises were admired over a series of suppers. Elf’s wings were much commented upon. She wished she could use them to fly through time.
At two in the morning, as people began to leave or seek their beds, Lord Ferron proposed. At least he’d not worn a toga this time, but a more concealing Harlequin costume. Elf turned him down gently, wondering if she’d regret it.
If Fort intended to put an end to her hopes, she might in time want a poor substitute. She’d discovered that she very much wanted a husband and children . . .
But no. It wouldn’t be fair to marry when her heart was set on another. Perhaps in time she’d forget and be able to go to another man heart-whole.
Elf immersed herself in the business of tidying up the event.
She made sure coaches were coming around for neighboring guests, and that all were supplied with hot bricks for warmth. She found mislaid cloaks, coats, and canes, and one broken pearl necklace. She came across a few gentlemen in corners, rather the worse for drink, and arranged for their comfort. She detected some spills and other damage requiring quick care, and set servants to deal with them.
She should be growing tired, but she didn’t think she’d sleep this night.
Occasionally she encountered Rothgar in similar activities, making sure the event ended as harmoniously as it had begun. Eventually, weary peace settling, he drew her into his study—one of the few rooms kept locked during the masquerade—and poured them both wine.
He raised his glass. “Magnificent as always, Elf.”
She mirrored the toast. “A true Malloren effort. And the king seems pleased with his gift.”
“Since he’s ordered it carried up to his room, it would seem so. Will the poor queen have any sleep tonight?”
“Probably not,” she said with a grin. “I heard him tell her that he intended to go farther than the shepherd beneath the tree.”
“An education for the winding boys, to be sure.”
“Bey! They wouldn’t!”
“Monarchs are strange creatures.” But he smiled. “Don’t worry. I sent the lads to bed hours ago and put a couple of middle-aged stable boys in their place. Even if George wants to claim his marital rights to the sound of singing birds, he’ll not shock those two.”
He wasn’t going to mention it, so she did. “Fort’s around somewhere.”
“So I understand.”
“He seems much improved.”
“I am delighted.”
“I’m meeting him at dawn.”
He paused in the act of sipping. “I really would rather not have another Earl of Walgrave die here during a masquerade.”
“Almost anything can be a weapon, my dear. Do try not to reopen his wounds.”
She turned away and put down her half-empty glass. “Bey, I don’t know what he wants. He was maddeningly ambiguous.”
“Do you know what you want?”
She turned back. “Oh, yes. I want him, quite desperately. In all meanings of the word. But only if I can make him happy.” She rubbed her hands nervously over waspish silk. “I suppose I should get out of this costume so Chantal can go to bed. He wants us to meet in normal clothes.”
“Surprisingly wise. Bon chance, my dear.”
Elf paused at the door and looked back at him. “Bey, just for once will you be frank about something? What do you think about this?”
“I? I am recognizing that the one area I cannot control is affairs of the heart. But if Walgrave wants to marry you, and you can both be happy in that state, I will be pleased. We did him harm, and it would be right to do him good.”
“I think he’ll fit into the Mallorens remarkably well.”
“Oh yes. That is what made him so dangerous.”
As she opened the door, he added, “If he is to be part of the family, see if he’ll take over the wine and spirit division.”
Elf was still laughing as she ran upstairs to her room.
Chapter 21
Elf drove a weary Chantal to distraction trying to choose exactly the right outfit for her crucial meeting. What represented the real Lady Elfled Malloren?
She was tempted by her remaining safe gowns, the pales and pastels with pretty little prints. At least they were safe, and perhaps that’s how Fort thought of her. After all, apart from that one encounter at Lord Coalport’s villa, he’d never seen her in her new wardrobe.
Her new clothes, however, were more true to her now. But not a grand gown. That would be inappropriate, besides being unnecessarily uncomfortable during hours of waiting.
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