His Heart's Delight

by Mary Blayney

  ~ ~ ~

  “You look perfect, Joanna, absolutely perfect.” Christiana looked to her mama, hoping she would add her assurance.

  “You look lovely, dear.”

  Christiana breathed a sigh of gratitude as a tentative smile replaced Joanna’s frown.

  “It seemed like such a good idea at the time, Christy.” Joanna turned to her mother. “Do you think anyone will know what I am pretending to be?”

  Mama’s generosity faded. “Do not intellectualize, Joanna.”

  “Dearest, a masquerade is for amusement, not edification.” Christiana had to agree with her mother. “With your mask on you look exactly as one representing the bright light of day should.”

  Joanna’s half mask included a diadem of golden rays that framed her face. Her golden gown showed off her lovely skin and completed the illusion of bright sunlight.

  Christiana brushed an imaginary speck of dust from her sister’s skirt, then reached for her fan. “Now we must hurry so we are not too late. This is one time when I want to be among the first to arrive so that I can see what everyone is wearing.” She dropped the fan on the bed and reached out to straighten Joanna’s skirt just once more so that it would lie perfectly.

  “Stand still, Christiana. Stop fidgeting.”

  Christiana refused to be annoyed by her mother’s testiness. Nothing was going to spoil this evening. She stood still while her mother inspected her up and down and then nodded.

  “Oh, Mama.” Joanna spoke with amused annoyance. “Say it, Christy looks wonderful.”

  “She does.” It was sincerely meant and her slight hesitation was understood by all three of them.

  Joanna stepped closer to her sister. “You are still not sure she should be wearing black? But, Mama, sprinkled with brilliants the way it is and with her tiara of stars one could hardly mistake her for anything but the Night Sky.”

  Mama allowed herself to be convinced. “You look wonderful, both of you. A credit to your family.”

  It was such an unusually generous thing for their mama to say that Christiana could think of nothing less than a curtsy in thanks. Joanna followed suit, and in rare accord, the three of them made for the hall and the waiting carriage.

  They did not arrive as early as Christiana would have liked. The train of carriages wound around the square, each occupant waiting with varying patience for the chance to alight at the grand entrance of the Hawthorne residence.

  Once inside, the Lamberts made their way to a withdrawing room along with every other young lady and all spent at least another half hour admiring each other’s costumes with singular sincerity. Most friends were easily recognized, though the youngest Miss Westbourne was well disguised as a shepherdess and had even changed her voice to match her outfit.

  They discussed Miss Westbourne’s costume as they made their way to the grand staircase. “It is an excellent idea. She has no particular beau and this will leave her free to entertain anyone who might ask her to dance.”

  “You know,” remarked Joanna, “I do believe that a masquerade comes as close to making us the equal of men as any entertainment I can think of.”

  “Do you know what Lord Monksford is wearing?” If Joanna found him early then she could discuss the point with him. As far as Christiana was concerned, this evening was made for frivolity not debate.

  Not three minutes later, Louis XIV, the Sun King, invited Joanna to dance. Christiana was dumbfounded. This man was wearing a suit made from the same fabric as Joanna’s dress. His wig was a modest replica of those lately favored and there was no mistaking that he had come up with the outfit to compliment her sister’s costume.

  Was it really Lord Monksford? Every unkind thought Christiana had ever entertained about him disappeared, replaced by an affectionate admiration for a man who was willing to go so against his natural inclinations just to please her sister.

  The golden couple moved to the dance floor and Christiana looked around for her mother, eager to share her amazement.

  “Lady Starlight?” The quiet night-darkened voice came from behind her. “May I have this dance?”

  It was Lord Morgan. He had gone to no great lengths to hide his face, though a half mask did cover his eyes. His voice was more seductive than usual, but it was very much in keeping with the costume he wore.

  His clothing was the darkest black velvet and very formal, virtually unrelieved by white. Even his shirt and cravat were a black silk that made him look mysterious rather than menacing. He had draped a cape from his shoulder, this in satin, shimmering against the velvet of his suit.

  “You look wonderful!” Christiana clapped her hands and would never ever admit that she was not exactly sure what he was supposed to be.

  “But you have recognized me.”

  “Well, my lord, we have spent the entire Season together. By now I know your laugh even if I am half a room away. I can tell it is you even when your back is to me by the set of your shoulders and the tilt of your head.”

  “As I know you despite the mask.”

  She smiled as he stepped back to take in the elegance of her costume, though his eyes never left her face.

  “But someone must have told you what I was wearing, my lord. Someone surely told Lord Monksford what Joanna’s costume was going to be.”

  “No, no. Your eyes give you away and the way you bring your hands together.” He covered her two joined hands with his own. “Just like this.”

  Who knew how long she would have been content to stand with him like that? But the orchestra’s opening notes drew the attention of the entire crowd gathered in the outer room, and Christiana and Morgan were swept along with the rest of the guests as they all moved toward the ballroom.

  As Morgan took her arm, Christiana realized that while he might not be anything more than a night-driven spirit, his costume was a perfect background to her brilliantly spangled gown.

  “This is going to be so much fun! And how did you find out what I was wearing? Was it Sally? But when did you talk with her?” And then to design his whole costume to complement hers. Was there a more wonderful man in the world than Lord Morgan Braedon?

  Fifteen

  “Oh, the quiet in this garden is lovely.” Christiana turned to look back into the ballroom. “I think everyone is dancing. Someone has even convinced Mama to take the floor.”

  Morgan watched her with unabashed enjoyment, drawing his pleasure in the evening from hers. She seemed pleased with the attention they drew—among the brightly colored costumes their black and sparkling outfits drew a dozen compliments.

  After their first dance she had confided, “It is grand, just once, to be the belle of the ball. And the disguise gives us the freedom to enjoy every moment of it.”

  When she suggested a walk in the garden after their second dance he would have been a fool not to agree.

  At first they walked in silence along the path, nodding to other couples they passed. As they moved farther from the house, there were fewer people and more dark corners. Christiana insisted there was a fountain at the end of the path and so they walked deeper into the garden as the sounds of the party faded behind them.

  They hurried away from one dead end, holding their laughter until they were out of hearing, though as far as Morgan could tell the couple was so engrossed in each other they would have not heard any interruption less than a fireworks display.

  “Who was it?” Christiana grabbed his arm as she barely saved herself from tripping over an uneven paving stone.

  “That is the wonder of a masquerade, Miss Starlight. I have no idea who that was.” He kept hold of her arm and led her to another path, this one more brightly lit. “It could be that they do not know either.”

  “You mean that woman might be kissing a complete stranger?”

  “Yes. Does that shock you?”

  “A little. How very daring.” She shivered.

  Was that a shiver of awareness or was she chilled? He took off his cloak and wrapped it around her. S
he stilled and he wanted desperately to turn her into his arms and enfold her as closely as the satin of his cloak held her. Instead, he let his hands linger, caressing her shoulders lightly through the fabric. She leaned back into the gesture for the briefest second, and then pulled the cape around her with murmured thanks.

  Now they both were clothed in unrelieved black. She stopped abruptly. “Do you think people suspect that is why we came out here?”

  “Undoubtedly.” The idea had certainly occurred to him. Had it only now struck her? Better late than never.

  “Oh my.” She stood with her back to him and spoke quietly but with animation, as though she were playing to a full house of one. “The ton can be so foolish.” She turned back to him. “They refuse to believe that we may have simply wanted some air, some conversation. They think that friendship between a man and woman is impossible.”

  Christiana took his arm, humming the last tune they had danced to. She was in high spirits tonight and it was contagious.

  They looked down a short path and then turned back as another couple had claimed the stone bench.

  With a sigh of annoyance, Christiana whispered, “They think that all men and women are good for is some sort of endless mating ritual.”

  There was a touch of irritation in her voice now. He loved it and wondered just how to bait her a little more. “They just do not understand.” Actually, he never had either. If this was friendship then it was one of the most exquisite frustrations of his life. He had been friends with women before, but it was always after an intimacy that made anything less absurd. “The true benefits of friendship are beyond their grasp.”

  “Yes! Friendship can be so rewarding. Good conversation, no need for games or pretenses, a true understanding that makes good manners natural.”

  Is that how she viewed what they shared? He would not have described it the same way. Did she really believe it or was she being coy? “You are, my dear, so delightfully, incredibly, wrong.” Any insult was effectively eliminated by the low-voiced intimacy of his words.

  “Me? Wrong?” The words were a squeak caught between amusement and flirtation.

  “Yes. Friendship between a man and a woman is never as simple as good conversation and no pretension. For the simple reason that men and women do not ever understand each other fully.”

  She did not deny it, so he continued. “One is always wondering what the other really meant. For instance did you truly mean what you just said or are you, perhaps, fishing for more of a declaration from me.”

  She watched him, but still had no answer. Was she tempted?

  “Sweetheart, do you really think in all these weeks, in all these charming afternoons, and softly scented nights, that friendship might have changed from an end to the means?”

  He held her hand lightly in his. He had done that often enough before, but always to an end, to assist her down a step, to direct her to some sight, never just holding her hand for the sheer sensuous pleasure, the way he was now.

  Her smile was cautious but he saw no censure, no shock. Touching her chin with a gentle finger, he raised her face to his. “Have you never realized how much I long to touch those sweet lips, those lips that charm and laugh and gossip with me, only with me?”

  Running his thumb over her mouth, he felt the little gasp slip from her. Had Richard ever seen her eyes this green, totally focused on him, on his eyes, on his mouth? He was hardly fool enough to ask when he was so close to what he had wanted for so long. He stepped closer so there was hardly room for a breath between them. “Do you know how many times I have thought of caressing that sweet spot between your cheek and neck? That spot is so inviting when you wear your hair that way.”

  He trailed his hand down her cheek, resting his palm at the curve of her neck. The smile faded. Her pulse sharpened.

  He needed no answer. He did not need to read her eyes. How could she not long for the same kiss he had dreamed of for weeks?

  Holding her face with his hands, he touched her mouth with his. The small kiss he planned disappeared with the first feel of her. He had waited so long and had so much to give. Morgan kissed her with a passion he could barely control, teasing her lips with his tongue, using his hands to stroke the sensitive cords of her neck, eager for the response that meant surrender.

  His own yearning masked her first response but he recognized the softening of her mouth against his, the slight opening of her lips. But after a moment he realized that was all the response there was.

  He felt the tension in her body. Hands that should have been clutching at his coat were pressed against him, urging them apart. He allowed himself to be pushed an arm’s length away and realized at once his mistake.

  Her eyes were bright with tears or anger. She looked at him as if he were a stranger. No, it was worse than that; she looked at him with a gaze of shocked disbelief.

  “No!” Christiana had enough control not to shout the word, but he heard the vehemence despite the whisper. The joy was gone from her eyes, the color faded from her cheeks. She looked old all at once, not in years, but in experience, experience garnered from one kiss, from him.

  He put out his hand, hoping to apologize, to talk some sense into her, to make amends somehow, so they could return to the ballroom and forget his grotesque blunder.

  She slapped him and he knew there was no hope of a reprieve. Turning, she all but ran to the door. Shock held him for a moment and then he realized that her hurried entry into the ballroom, alone and distraught, would be ruinous.

  He ran after her, reaching her a few feet from the doorway. Thank the gods that the black of their costumes made them all but invisible to the couples inside.

  Taking her arm, he pulled her back into the shadow. He could feel rage throb through her. He would deal with that later, or maybe never. Now he would do his best to save her from herself.

  “No!” It was his no this time.

  She raised her free hand to slap him again, but he grabbed it before she completed the arc.

  “One slap is deserved, two is excessive.”

  “Let go of me,” she hissed.

  “No. Not until you listen.”

  “There is absolutely nothing you can say that will excuse your behavior.”

  As if she had nothing to do with it. As if her teasing and temptation was not finally more than he could bear. He would leave that for later as well.

  “I have no intention of apologizing.” That caught her attention. She stilled, even some of the trembling eased. “Christiana, you can not go back into that ballroom looking as you do now.”

  She looked at her dress, her bosom, as though she thought it was something about her costume that was out of place. When she saw nothing amiss, she glared at him. “What do you mean?” With a jerk, she tried to shake herself free of his hands.

  He let one go, but held the other, the one he now thought of as her slapping hand. He was sure anyone looking at them would suspect some sort of declaration. Tomorrow’s on-dit? Perhaps, but better than a scandal, he decided.

  “You are upset. You must take a moment, calm yourself, school your expression before you go back inside.”

  She was silent, but he heard understanding in the huff of breath she released.

  A group of three dressed as minor Greek gods walked by them with barely a glance, clearly intent on their own debauchery. Christiana did not so much as glance at them, but the presence of other people gave them both time. Morgan could marshal his thoughts and Christiana, hopefully, could control her emotions.

  “Well,” she said on another huff, “since this is all your fault, I can hardly pretend gratitude, but you are right.” She glared at him. “I hate it that you are right.”

  He nodded cautiously.

  “Almost as much as I hate you for ruining everything.”

  He held her gaze and denied the pain that grabbed and held his heart. There were tears in her eyes and that made his burn too.

  “I will walk through the doors with you, m
y lord. You will take me to my mother. I will plead a headache. She will be very annoyed but she will take me home.”

  He nodded since it was exactly what he had in mind.

  “And then, my lord, I never want to see you again.” There was no mercy in her voice, no hope of forgiveness.

  I never want to see you again. The words hung in the silence that stretched between them, a sampling of the rest of his life. I never want to see you again.

  “If that is what you truly wish, Sprite.” He used the nickname on purpose, hoping for some softening, for some sign of hope.

  She stared at him, unmoved. “It is exactly what I want.”

  He bowed to her, anger filtering through remorse. Offering her his arm, he wondered how long she would be able to control her emotions. Long enough, he prayed, begging the god of mercy; let it be long enough to save her reputation and ease his sense of responsibility.

  She laid her arm ever so lightly on his, as though closer contact was abhorrent. Her stiff composure was infectious. The smile he contrived was a mockery of happiness. Hers was more convincing, but a far cry from the merry look that usually lit her eyes and dimpled her cheek.

  As they moved through the room and toward the outer hallway, Morgan decided that he was dressed perfectly for his trip to Hades. He was bound for the netherworld. He was at the end of his parole. It was the way it should be, he decided. It was easier not to feel. So much easier not to risk this again, not ever again. No woman was worth it.

  He deserved the punishment, for the gross misunderstanding of his own emotions. Christiana had made him feel again. He had thought it was an amusing flirtation, tinged with freshness because she was so sweet. He had managed to convince himself that it was lust carefully tempered, to entertain and tempt them both.

  How wrong. How stupid. He read it as lust, but that touch of sweetness made it love.