by Ella Edon
“Really?” He blushed, feeling shyly proud. “When I first saw you, I noticed how beautiful you are.”
She grinned, turning away a little. He could see she was pleased by the comment – her cheeks were bright red. “Well, I thought you might have,” she said with a wry grin.
He laughed, delighting in how easily she had made him follow where she led. “I was a fool, wasn’t I?” he admitted. “Though it didn’t take me long to see how clever you are, too.”
She raised a brow. It was so good to see her eyes again! They gave the full range of her expression. Her voice was questioning as she replied, “I don’t know if I believe you, there,” she said, sounding a little sad. “I’m not that clever.”
“You’re clever enough to always be at least three steps ahead of me.”
“Not three,” Emilia teased. “Maybe one. On some paths.”
“One step ahead? You are generous, milady.” He grinned.
“You are too kind, sir.”
Seeing her lovely face, radiant with smiling, he felt his heart leap. He ached to take her in his arms and kiss her again. He saw her look at him, as if she considered it. He half-raised his hand to place it on her shoulder.
Before he could complete the gesture, Emilia turned away, looking down the path and into the moonlit garden. He saw her hesitate, as if she wanted to explore further. Then she shook her head.
“We should go back,” she said softly. “It’s getting cold out here.”
“I suppose so,” he replied.
They walked slowly back to the ballroom.
Chapter Eighteen
Dropping the Mask
Emilia walked into the ballroom, feeling her heart soar. She couldn’t quite believe what had happened. Beside her, Luke looked a little dazed – a glance to her left showed his wide eyes and a slightly dreamy expression. She held back a grin.
I wonder if I look like that, too?
She felt a gentle touch on her shoulder, one that made her jump. She looked up, her skin tingling with a strange excitement.
“Yes, Lord Westmore?”
“We should replace our masks,” he said, nodding his head at the ballroom. “It’s not yet midnight.”
“True,” Emilia whispered. She had almost forgotten about the scrap of velvet in her hand. She shook the wrinkles out and slipped it back on again. When she glanced up at Luke, he had done the same. She felt strangely disappointed…It had been nice to see Luke’s face properly. The mask made his expressions hard to read.
“It’s an hour still before midnight,” she murmured to him as they crossed the marble floor.
“It is.” He nodded. “We have the whole evening ahead of us…Would you care for a glass of cordial?”
Emilia hadn’t noticed it before, but her mouth was dry. “Yes, please. I would. Blueberry, if they have it.”
He bowed low. “Your wish is my command.”
She jostled his shoulder playfully, amazed at her own boldness. He disappeared into the crowd, his grin brighter than the candles.
While she waited, Emilia looked around the room, still feeling dreamy. It was all slightly surreal. Women in wide skirts danced with gentlemen in embroidered coats and capes. The whole hall looked like some strange carnival, with all types of people in attendance – people in blue and gold masks, people wearing outlandish hats, or elaborate hairstyles. She was tapping her foot in time to the music when she felt somebody rest a hand on her shoulder. She whirled round.
“Lord Westm…” she began, smiling. Then she stared.
The person was not Lord Westmore. Whoever he was, this person was tall, male, and strongly-built. He wore midnight-dark velvet and a black mask. She sensed a grim, violent disposition. She instinctively shrank back.
“No, I am not Lord Westmore,” the man said in a grating voice. She instantly recognized the voice and her hair stood on end.
“I see,” she replied, to his grace, the duke. She glanced swiftly round for a means of escape.
“I would reveal my identity, but I think that is against conventions. Not that I stick to customs overmuch. Nor, I think, do you.”
Emilia frowned. “In what sense, milord?” There was a menace in his words that made her heart clench.
He chuckled. “You met me alone, for one. That’s hardly customary.”
“That was an emergency!” Emilia exclaimed. “My father needed…”
“You would do much for your father. It’s admirable. Come – this is a ball. Will you dance?”
She looked round wildly, knowing that there was nothing she would enjoy less. “I feel sick,” she said swiftly. “It’s too hot in here…”
“You were out on the terrace earlier,” the Duke mentioned reproachfully. . “You aren’t overheated yet.”
“Your grace, I…” Emilia began, then stopped. He had seen her outside. What else had he seen? The kiss between her and Luke was harmless, and was even excusable – nobody confined themselves to society’s restrictive views at a masque! But, if he wished to, he could ruin her reputation. “One dance only.”
“Very good.” He sounded amused.
Emilia let herself be led onto the dance-floor, feeling completely miserable. She looked around to see if anybody she knew was there. She couldn’t see Hestony, and Luke was not among the dancers, either.
“Ah. A gavotte…How diverting,” the Duke smiled as he took his position beside her. Emilia felt his hand at her waist. She felt physically sick. His touch was repellent to her. His other hand took hers, his fingers gripping hers like steel. She couldn’t break the clasp, even if she had the will to try to.
The music began. That, at least, meant that her torment was closer to ending. She stepped through the dance – a lively, stirring melody – and felt her heart sink.
“See?” the Duke whispered as they rounded the corner of the hall. “We are a fine pair. Tell me you have enjoyed a dance more!”
“I have enjoyed a dance more,” Emilia whispered.
She felt his hand tighten on her waist. His eyes, behind the black mask, narrowed angrily. “A witty response.”
A true one. Emilia wanted to say it, but his presence, combined with the tight grip on her hand and waist, made her hold back.
Making him angry was clearly a bad idea.
“When we are married,” he went on, voice hard, “you will dance with me readily.”
“Probably not,” Emilia replied, sidestepping around another couple as they made another turn. “But I might find it impossible to avoid it.”
He squeezed her fingers so hard that it made her gasp. “You think you’re clever,” he hissed. “You’re as frivolous as all the other society beauties who think they’re clever, too.”
Emilia swallowed hard. That stung. Her father had always called her clever. He’d always called her accomplished, too – maybe her “cleverness” was only skin-deep? She was reminded of Lettie Whitsun – a famous heiress, and one who was equally-famed for her vacuity. Was she really as vacant as that?
“Mayhap,” she said softly. “But I’m not cruel or violent.”
The Duke chuckled. “Meaning, I assume, I am both?”
Emilia said nothing. They joined hands with another couple, made a pass around the corner, and then joined up again, keeping to the rhythm of the dance despite the angry interchange.
“I will show you what is cruel, and violent,” he threatened.
“You already have,” Emilia said. She stared up at him, her gaze meeting his dark eyes despite the surrounding dark velvet.
The music stopped. She unclasped her hands. He didn’t stop her.
She turned and ran from the room to the terrace.
There, she leaned on the railing, her arms wrapped round her body. She was shivering, though it was still warm outside. She looked out over the silent city as a tear slid down her cheek.
“Oh,” she whispered, as if her father was there beside her. “I wish I could tell you about this. Mayhap you would know what I can do?”
She had to at least tell her father about this suggestion of the Duke’s! But what would she do, if it was what he wished?
You would do much for your father, the Duke’s tone mocked her. He sounded most satisfied with that.
“But it’s true. I would.”
She recalled the discussion in that back room of the coffee-house. Even being there had felt wrong, illicit somehow. She ran her hands down her arms, feeling her skin crawl.
“I cannot even consider marriage with him. I cannot.”
It would be a prison, a sort of Hell. He had no love for her – she wasn’t sure if he could love anything. He was doing this to save money.
The thought alone filled her with shame. Was that what she was worth, to him? A few thousand pounds? As much as a small house in the countryside, or a few chains of gold and jewels.
“And Father? Would he agree to this? Would he think that, too?”
She leaned against the wall and sobbed. The worst part of it was, she didn’t know. She wished fervently that there was some sort of magic that could transform her world, let her escape this dreadful fate.
“It’s almost midnight,” a familiar voice commented behind her.
She spun round. “Lord Westmore!”
“Sorry if I startled you…milady?” Behind the mask, he frowned. “What happened?”
Her tears were falling swiftly now, big, unstoppable tears that ran down her cheeks and down her neck. She tried to talk, but only tears came out. She thought it must be the relief of seeing him.
“Forgive me, I just can’t stop crying!”
“Hush, milady.” He held out his hand to her. She took it. His touch felt safe, friendly. She recalled the Duke’s fingers crushing hers, and shivered. “What happened? If I may ask.”
“Milord…It’s the Duke of Elsmoor,” she whispered. “I saw him, and…” She stopped. She couldn’t tell him the truth! If she did, she’d have to reveal everything – her father’s business dealings, her own shameful conversation with the Duke, all of her worst fears!
“Carrington?” he asked. “I know the man. Unpleasant sort.” His face was hard. “I can imagine your distress.”
Emilia blinked back her tears, surprised by his quick assessment of the situation. “You know him?”
“I know him well enough to know he’s the last person I would let near a vulnerable young woman,” he said grimly.
Emilia sniffed. “I’m not that vulnerable…”
He smiled. “It’s hard to admit to, but everyone is vulnerable to something. I was, too – I let myself get kidnapped.”
Emilia smiled. “I suppose.”
“Your smile will disarm me any time.”
Emilia felt her throat get tight. “Milord, you are so kind…”
“I’m not kind,” he stated bitterly. “I’m selfish. I never once considered what might be happening to you.”
She sniffed with some asperity. “Nothing’s happening to me, milord. Forgive me – I was just distressed. My father is ill, and it weighs on me sometimes. That is all.”
“It weighs on you more than it should,” he pointed out softly. “Milady…you are a young, wise, and beautiful woman. You can give so much to so many people, by caring for yourself.”
Emilia stared at him. “That can’t be true.” That made no sense. Her father needed her to help him, he needed her to uphold convention. Her cousin needed her advice. Where, in any of that, was room for her?
“Milady, it’s true! Listen. What can you hear?”
Emilia, frowning, turned back to the darkened garden. She closed her eyes, to listen, and found that she could hear the wind in the trees – a breeze, stirring the leaves – and the sound of people in the street, calling out as a coach went trotting past. Closer, she heard a haunting melody.
“A nightingale?” She frowned. She listened harder and nodded. “Yes. A nightingale.”
“Imagine if that nightingale hushed its song,” Luke said softly. “Thinking it did us all a service by silencing itself, so we could sleep?”
Emilia felt fresh tears spring to her eyes, but these were tender ones. He really thought that?
“I’m no nightingale,” she replied gently, as she opened her eyes. “But, thank you.”
“You are,” Luke insisted, resting his hands on her shoulders. “You see yourself as a drab, gray creature, just like the nightingale. You don’t hear what we all hear – the magic that you bring wherever you go, enlivening even the blackest night.”
Emilia swallowed hard. “Milord,” she whispered brokenly.
He squeezed her shoulders, gently. “Lady Emilia,” he said beseechingly. “Don’t you dare stop singing. Not for anyone.”
Emilia bit her lip. She looked up into his eyes. “I won’t. You, too.”
He held her gaze and, so tenderly, bent and pressed his lips to hers. She shut her eyes and felt her arms enfold him as she kissed him back. This time, his tongue parted her lips gently and she breathed in the sweet scent of him, feeling her heart soar.
When they parted, he was blinking rapidly, and she thought she felt a damp place on his cheek. But that must have been imagination only – why would he be crying?
Before she could say anything, he turned away and walked swiftly into the ballroom.
The bell rang and Emilia realized it was midnight. Slowly, she took off her mask. She let it fall to the cold stone of the terrace.
She was not going to hide any longer. She was going to tell the truth.
It was too long since she had let herself be.
She turned and went back into the hall, leaving the nightingale behind her to fill the garden with its song.
Chapter Nineteen
Discussion in the Dark
Luke leaned against the wall heavily. He closed his eyes.
“Dash it, Luke Preston. You’re in love with her.”
He grinned tiredly. He should have noticed that ages ago. He couldn’t believe he’d been so blind! He ran a weary hand down his face, recalling the sweet moments on the balcony.
“Emilia Herston…you kiss beautifully.”
He went red. Even saying it to the darkness, in the hallway of his own home, he felt embarrassed. He recalled how her lips felt on his, the way they were soft and full, like pillows of finest silk. He wanted to kiss them again and again.
“Dash it, Luke,” he said to himself again. “You’re being quite wicked.”
He smiled. An innocent kiss at a masked ball was hardly wicked – even for the Ton, who condoned slavery and child mine-workers, but condemned men and women playing on the same team for a game of croquet.
“Well, I know something. I know I’m in love and it feels terrific.”
He smiled again, wrapping his arms around himself. He made himself stand up, aware that he would look rather ridiculous, leaning on the wall of the hallway, should any of the servants chance upon him there.
“It’s time for bed.”
He dragged himself up the steps, feeling weary. As he passed the parlor, he noticed there was a fire still burning in the grate. He stopped and stared at it.
“Luke,” a voice called from within. “You’re back early.”
“Canmure!” Luke grinned, relieved. “I’d forgotten I said you should stay the night. How was the party?”
Canmure shook his head. “Reasonable. I lost at cards too many times. You’re right. I should stop.”
“Probably, yes,” Luke agreed.
“Raphaella’s asleep – she spent the whole evening dancing.” Canmure shook his head, a smile lifting his cheeks. He had taken off his elaborate waistcoat, and was dressed in an ordinary shirt and hose.
“It was a good ball,” Luke commented.
Canmure said nothing. He was sitting in the leather-backed chair by the fireplace. An empty tumbler sat by his side, evidence – along with the sweet smell – that he’d been sampling Luke’s whiskey.
“I hope you had fun?” Canmure asked, stretching. He looked tired.
“Sounds good. Met a lass, eh?” Canmure asked knowingly.