She wouldn’t think about the repercussions of someone recognizing her. And she wouldn’t think of what would happen if word got back to her parents. None of that would happen. She reached up to touch her mask. She was safe. She was anonymous.
The door swung open, wrenching the handle from her grip, and a blast of cool evening air washed over her. Squaring her shoulders, she alighted from the hack and stepped into the melee.
Chapter Two
Andrew Sinclair, the ninth Earl of Weston, fingered his champagne glass distractedly. He wished he were at home, studying the latest unclassified flora brought back from South America.
But Madame Lussier could be very convincing. She’d come to his house last week, waving a card at him.
“Here!” she’d exclaimed in her heavy French accent. Drew wasn’t even sure she was actually French, but she certainly liked to make a show of it. She’d stuck the card in his face. “Here is another one, since you failed to return the last.”
Drew had regarded her calmly. “Good afternoon, madame.”
She’d responded by flapping the card in his face again.
Unperturbed, he’d taken it from her and read the fancy printed script.
The honor of your presence is requested
At the Masqued Ball of the Century
Presented by Madame Jean-Louise Lussier
18th May at nine o’clock in the evening
Répondez, s’il vous plaît.
Madame Lussier had exclaimed, “Do you see the last line, Andrew? Do you?” She came closer, pointing at the last line of fine script. “Do you?”
“I do,” he said.
“Do you know what it means? Non? Because you are not French or because you are simply a fool? It means respond, if you please.”
“Ah.” Drew frowned. He knew what it meant, but he remembered seeing no such invitation. Then again, he had been distracted. He raised a brow at her. “Why, exactly, are you here, madame?”
“Because you did not respond!” she bellowed.
He stepped back. “But you just brought that. I haven’t had time to respond.”
“Do not speak such nonsense. I sent you the invitation a week ago. A week. I gave you very much time. And yet you choose to ignore my efforts.”
“I am truly sorry, madame. I did not mean to ignore you. Now, when is it again?” His immediate instinct had been to wave the invitation away. He had better things to do than watch people flirt and tease all night at a masked ball. However, he knew Madame Lussier very well—well enough to know he needed to tread carefully. She was a rich widow whose husband had been an astronomer, and though she herself wasn’t scientific, she had drawn from her seemingly never-ending well of funds to support matters of science in homage to him.
Finding Drew’s scientific bent—botany—acceptable as one of her many scientific pursuits, she had partnered with him five years ago, and together they’d financed expeditions that returned to England with crates filled with of-as-yet undiscovered fauna from the far reaches of the world. If she discontinued her support out of pique, which Drew had witnessed in a few of Madame Lussier’s other ventures, he wouldn’t have the resources to continue on as they had. Many people would suffer. Science itself would suffer.
“Friday! Four days from now.”
“Ah.” He tapped his forehead, considering his schedule. As usual, he had nothing planned besides sitting in his study bent over his samples and his notes.
He wished he had some pressing duty to attend to, but in fact, he did not.
A masquerade. God help him.
“Of course I shall attend,” he’d said, giving her a tight smile. “I wouldn’t dare miss it.”
Now he stood here at the edge of Madame Lussier’s crowded, stuffy ballroom, watching all the revelers spinning around the center of the room in the midst of a boisterous country dance. The laughter and chatter rose over the music, and he stood near the wall, arms crossed over his chest and his lips pursed. He would endure this frippery until midnight, and then he’d take his leave.
It was far too warm in here, and he put his hand to his cravat but resisted the urge to loosen it. Approximately three quarters of the people in the ballroom were dressed in costumes that ranged from ostentatious to offensive to demure to skin-baring. Dressed in traditional evening wear, he was in the minority, though like everyone else, he was wearing a mask.
At the last minute this evening, he had troubled his valet, Mitchell, to fetch him one. Mitchell had worked his magic and had returned within the hour with a simple black mask in time to help Drew dress and shave.
Drew strode to the refreshments table and took another glass of champagne. As a rule, he wasn’t a champagne drinker, but he’d make an exception because he required something to hold on to so he wouldn’t be standing there the entire time, arms crossed and appearing irritated at being here at all.
“Do I know you?” The feminine voice was a stage whisper at his shoulder, just loud enough to be heard over the din.
He turned around, not recognizing the voice. The woman was dressed as a man…quite a dandy of a man, in fact, with trousers that were striped green and white, a billowing shirt, a top hat of green felt, and a green cape. Her mask was also red, glittering with emeralds—or paste emeralds; he leaned toward paste but couldn’t be sure unless he examined them more closely, which he had no desire to do.
Some men might find a woman wearing trousers extremely alluring. He was not one of those men. He preferred his women feminine—he liked the hint of curves their clothing suggested and preferred it to be revealed in private, where he and he alone could unveil the secret of a woman’s soft, warm flesh.
Drew took a step backward, squinting at her. He still didn’t recognize her. “No. I don’t believe we have been introduced.”
“Oh.” Her eyes flickered to his champagne glass. “That looks wonderful,” she murmured suggestively, gazing at it like she wanted to devour it, glass and all.
“Please. Be my guest,” he said dryly, holding it out to her.
“Oh,” she said again, and he wondered at the extent of her vocabulary. “That would be wonderful.”
She took it from him. Staring at his face, she raised the glass to her lips and took a tiny sip. “Ohhhhhh,” she said, then licked her lips provocatively, gazing up at him from under her lashes.
“Yes. Well. Good evening.” He gave her a small bow and walked away. He threaded through a crowd of people who were flirting ostentatiously with one another, women batting their eyelashes over their fans and men touching them suggestively.
He swerved around a couple engaged in the beginnings of carnal congress. The man had pulled the woman’s dress over her shoulder, and his lips were traveling greedily over her collarbone. Her head was thrown back, and she was making little gasping noises.
Clearly, masks stripped people of their usual inhibitions.
Someone rapped on his shoulder with a fan. He looked around to see Madame Lussier, dressed as…something white and frothy. She wore a flesh-colored mask with a pug nose, including drawn-in nostrils. She was…a sheep, perhaps? He couldn’t be sure.
“You!” she pronounced, pointing her fan at him. “I know you!”
He hesitated a fraction of a second, thinking how similar this greeting was to the previous woman’s. “Yes, it is me. Good evening, madame.”
He gave her a bow, then frowned when she let out a burst of laughter.
“You have no idea of manners, monsieur.”
“I learned my manners when I was still wearing nappies, I believe. It is the people here who seem to be lacking in them.” He gestured toward the crowd. “The last woman who approached me was extremely forward. If she had any manners whatsoever, she would not have spoken to me until we’d been formally introduced.”
Madame Lussier gave a long-suffering sigh. “Dieu, Andrew. Come with me.” She grabbed his elbow and led him into an alcove that was quiet and uncrowded compared to the ballroom. “Now, listen to me.”
She pointed her fan at him. “Wipe that scowl from your face immediately. We are at a masquerade, my boy. Masquerades have been popular for a very long time.”
She was correct on that matter, at least. The first known written record of a masquerade was a hundred and eighty-two years ago; however, it was likely they were in existence long before that.
He might not have ever attended a masquerade, but he was excellent with numbers. He remembered them exactly, without fail.
“Exactement! And there is certain etiquette, certain tradition, required, especially at my masquerades.”
“Such as?” Drew asked.
“You have followed the first and most important rule—you came masked. But you clearly do not know the second rule, the rule of introductions. You may approach anyone at the masquerade, even those you have not formally met.”
He gave her a wry smile. “Well, that explains that woman’s behavior, then.”
“Oui, oui. That and her infatuation with the line of your jaw and the width of your shoulders.” Madame Lussier chuckled.
He simply stared at her, and she waved her hand. “Never mind, never mind. When you approach someone at a masquerade, you must open the conversation with ‘Do I know you?’ or ‘Have we met before?’ or ‘I know who you are,’ or some variation. It is a way for all of us to keep a certain sense of order in this madness.” She made a wide gesture, which he followed with his gaze.
Yes, it was madness indeed. People laughed so hard they were falling into one another’s arms. Others were tripping over their costumes as the country dance ended.
Still others held glasses of champagne and punch in both hands and were trading sips from both glasses. In one corner a half-dressed couple embraced intimately, their movements so jerky he was concerned for the safety of the potted plant beside them.
“Another rule,” Madame Lussier continued, “is that we must all reveal our identities at midnight. If we are so brave as to stay until then.” She grinned at him and reached up to pat his cheek. “That is enough for you now, Andrew. Now I insist you go out there and imply you know everyone you encounter and begin to have some fun.”
He tried not to audibly grind his teeth. Why people would choose to set aside rules they’d known from their childhoods to don these clothes and engage in such wildly erratic behaviors was beyond him.
“You are out of your element, I know, but that is a most excellent thing. Now cease that glowering and enjoy yourself.” With that, Madame Lussier spun around and left him in a flurry of puffy white skirts.
He stood there for a moment, considering all this. Then he turned and walked out of the alcove. He headed toward the refreshments table, intending to keep one of his hands occupied with a fresh glass of champagne.
But then, just steps away, he saw someone he did know.
He stopped in his tracks. He would recognize her anywhere, even dressed as a Greek goddess.
He knew the exact hue of her hair. Her height. The way she held herself. He’d even analyzed the particular sway of her hips when she walked and had stored it in his memory as he might catalogue a new species of plant discovered in Peru.
He glanced around, wondering if everyone else knew her as he did. But, no. They carried on as if the most intriguing, heartbreaking woman in London didn’t occupy the same space they did.
Her costume fooled them, clearly. He watched her as she stepped toward the wall, then turned. Ah, and she wore a mask, too, one that covered most of her face, showing only her lips and jaw.
He had memorized the angle of her jaw. And he knew her lips very well indeed. The bottom was a fraction of an inch thicker than the top, and they usually were pressed into a straight, serious line, as they were now. Though they were a darker shade of pink than usual tonight. Perhaps she had had them painted with something.
She surveyed the dancers, who had begun a waltz. Her gaze caught on someone, and her lips curved a tiny bit, as if she had just come within a hairsbreadth of a smile.
Frowning, he glanced at the crowd of dancers, but they moved in such a flurry of noise and color, it was impossible to determine who she’d been looking at.
He returned his gaze to her. He hadn’t seen her in a very long time. He knew, as did the rest of London, what she’d been through with her husband.
A frisson of hatred swept through him, as it did every time he thought of the Marquis of Fenwicke.
She appeared extremely healthy, but he knew that wounds of the mind took much longer to heal than those of the flesh. Her body was appealing to him indeed, all lush curves and softness. The Greek robe she wore exposed her arms but not much more, and the gown was smooth and flowing, giving enough hints to intrigue, to arouse the senses.
He closed his eyes in a long blink. He’d blocked all erotic thoughts of Beatrice Reece from his mind for so long, but now they reared up, heating his body from the inside out. In his youth, from the first time he’d danced with her at a ball during her Season, he’d wanted her.
He’d wanted her with increasing urgency as he’d grown to know her better and had planned in exacting detail how he would formally approach her father with his suit. He knew it would be a challenge, because not only was her father well-known as a pompous ass, but also Drew was the same age as her, quite young, and untitled with little hope for a title in the future. At that time, everyone had expected Drew’s uncle, the Earl of Weston, to produce an heir prior to his untimely death a year later.
In spite of all that, Drew knew what he wanted. He was not a man to waver—when he desired something, he pursued it relentlessly until he achieved his goal.
And what he’d desired was her.
She was beautiful and sweet and lovely, but it turned out that he wasn’t the only one who thought so. She’d had six marriage proposals that Season. His scrupulous planning had caused him to delay too long. Before he’d had a chance to approach her father with his suit, her engagement to the Marquis of Fenwicke was announced. Fenwick was older than both of them, heir to a duke, and quite popular in the ton.
Fenwicke had married her, and Drew had buried his attraction for her, because he would not lust after a married lady.
And then, two years ago, Fenwicke had died, and the rumors had begun.
Drew hated gossip. He abhorred rumors. But these…they were disgusting and horrible, and to hear them had infuriated him to no end.
Fenwicke had hurt Beatrice. Terribly. And now the ton whispered about her, at times blaming her for Fenwicke’s wrongs. The people who should have gathered round her in support drove her away when she needed them the most. It was enough to make Drew himself withdraw from society almost completely, because he couldn’t stand to be in the presence of people who would mock an innocent woman.
“You’re staring, Andrew.” There it was again, that smack on his shoulder. He frowned at Madame Lussier, whose painted brows rose in arches over her mask. “I agree, she is lovely. There is an innocence about her that stands out among this crowd. Go to her, mon ami. Say you know her. She looks like she could use a friend.”
Madame Lussier was gone as soon as she’d appeared, swirling into the midst of a group of drunken revelers. In seconds, she was laughing along with them. But over an exotic prince’s shoulder, she flashed Drew a look that demanded he comply.
He glanced at Beatrice again, and a primal instinct welled up within him: the urge to pursue and conquer but also to protect. His long-buried desire for her was back. It burned in his chest…and these days, he never allowed things he wanted to slip through his fingers.
His mind calculated how to go about this. He might have the instincts of a predator, but he was first and foremost a gentleman. He glanced at the refreshments table, which stood off to the side in the path between them. He would make a slight detour for two glasses of punch, then he’d approach her. He’d ask if he knew her, she’d probably say no, and then he’d offer her something to drink.
Drew strode with purpose to the refreshments table and retrieved two glas
ses of punch.
But when he turned back toward Beatrice, she was gone.
Chapter Three
Beatrice scanned the crowd, searching for Jessica in hopes of asking her to go outside for a moment for some fresh air when her dance was over. Where was she? She’d just seen her a minute ago, dancing in a wide circle with a man in a domino costume. But now there were so many men dressed as the domino, their capes swirling widely as they turned, and the women partnered with them all seemed to blur together. She’d lost Jessica among all these people.
The air was stifling, and the crowd pressed in on her. She sucked in a breath, trying to fill her lungs, and the person walking by dressed as a Chinaman glanced at her over his shoulder, a curious look on his face.
Beatrice could hardly breathe. She needed a moment outside, and she’d given up on finding Jessica. She hurried toward the glass door leading to the terrace, knocking a champagne glass out of someone’s hand. The crash of splintering glass and laughter followed her as she opened the door and rushed outside.
No one was on the terrace—evidently they found all the activity inside too stimulating to venture outside. All the better for her. She walked to the railing and looked out over the park. The grounds were shadowed, lit only sporadically by lanterns. The grass was a sea of gray-black, punctuated by the darker shadows of trees and brush.
She closed her eyes and breathed in the clean, fresh air, fortifying herself to venture back inside.
A throat cleared softly behind her. When she turned, she saw a well-shaped man standing in the shadows. He was very tall, with broad shoulders, a handsome jawline, and a straight nose. He wore black evening clothes and a black mask, but his cravat was a snowy white, a focal point in the darkness.
He tilted his head. “Do I know you?” he asked softly. She didn’t know his voice, though she had met almost everyone here before her marriage and subsequent seclusion, and many of the voices she’d heard tonight had sounded familiar.
One Night with an Earl Page 2