A Masked Deception (11 page)

They had the carriage drop them on Bond Street and walked its length, visiting the various modiste establishments and milliners. They stopped frequently to talk to various lady acquaintances and curtsied to several gentlemen.

Charlotte also insisted on visiting Hookam’s library to exchange a book. “I must have a romantic novel to read tonight, Meg,” she said. “We cannot go out, as you have your appointment to keep.” She giggled.

Margaret, who usually enjoyed a shopping expedition, felt by the time they reached home that she could have screamed with frustration. The day was rushing by, yet time was crawling. She helped Charlotte carry a few bandboxes into the house; two footmen were directed to carry the rest of the boxes and parcels to Charlotte’s room. Margaret was glad that she had had the presence of mind to direct, when Charlotte was not within earshot, that the bills be sent to Richard. He would not mind; he was a most generous man. And she could always suggest that he take the money out of her next quarter’s allowance. Her father, on the other hand, would not be at all amused by his younger daughter’s extravagance.

Margaret spent some time in her room after luncheon, supposedly resting. She thought about the coming evening and felt sick with worry. Was she not courting disaster to meet him again this night? Was he not bound to recognize her? She did not believe that she could face his fury if he discovered her deception. Margaret had never seen her husband lose his temper, but instinct warned her that she would not want to be on the receiving end if he ever did.

Then she thought again of the expertise with which he had embraced her the previous week and of her own response. She thought of the brief, dispassionate encounters that they shared each night in her bed. And she knew again that she must go, whatever the risk.

The remainder of the afternoon was taken up with a drive in the park with Charles. He arrived unexpectedly, demanding that the ladies accompany him to point out some of the more prominent members of the
ton.

“It is so long since I have been in London that I fear I might ignore someone that I should know,” he explained with his charming smile. “That could mean death to my social reputation.”

He need not have feared. All eyes were drawn in admiration to his tall, dashing figure as he drove his curricle skillfully through the heavy traffic in the I park, and many people claimed reacquaintance. Charlotte, at his side, sparkled, it seemed to Margaret. The two chattered gaily for the duration of the drive, leaving Margaret to her thoughts. She felt happily convinced that there was a very real attraction between her sister and her husband’s brother.

Dinner that evening was a quiet affair. Neither Brampton nor Margaret seemed inclined to make conversation, and Charlotte, for once, seemed wrapped up in thought. Brampton was preoccupied with his guilt and his anticipation of seeing his angel again. Margaret was excited and sick with anxiety.

“I shall be leaving presently, my dear,” Brampton announced across the table to his wife. “I have an engagement and shall probably be late.”

Margaret smiled placidly. “That is all right, Richard,” she said. “Charlotte and I have planned a quiet evening.”

“What?” he said, eyebrows raised. “Do you have no invitations for tonight?”

“Yes, two,” she replied calmly. “Lady Emberly is having a card party and the Prices a musical soiree. But we have declined both.”

“I hope that Charlotte is not becoming bored with the Season already,” he said, smiling teasingly at her.

“Oh, no, indeed, my lord,” she cried, “but I—I have the headache.” Then she bit her lip, remembering that that had been Meg’s excuse the week before.

“I am sorry to hear it,” Brampton said. “Might I suggest an early night?”

“Yes, my lord, it is exactly what I intended,” said Charlotte meekly, eyes on her plate. “And Meg has kindly offered to stay at home to bear me company.” Charlotte was not a convincing actress, but Brampton’s mind was only half on the conversation. He accepted her explanations without suspicion.

One hour later, Brampton having departed for his “engagement,” Margaret was in her room, yet again being dressed in the silver gown and mask, her hair piled loosely beneath the powdered wig. Both Kitty and Charlotte were present and helping, both as nervous and excited as Margaret herself.

Kitty applied the lip rouge, Margaret slipped her feet into the wine-colored slippers, took the matching fan from Charlotte, and was ready to leave. This time Kitty smuggled her down the back stairs and out through the servants’ entrance, so that she would not be observed by the butler and footmen.

Margaret ran lightly across to the stables, where Jem was waiting, the plain carriage ready for her.

“Jem,” she said as he helped her inside the carriage and lifted the steps, “please follow me wherever I go tonight. I do not wish to be caught without a conveyance.”

Jem could not quite understand why her ladyship needed to arrange a secret meeting with her own husband and why she must return separately from him, but it was not his job to question the Quality, certainly not his master and mistress.

“You need have no fears, your ladyship,” he assured her before closing the door. “I shall see that you come safely home.”

“Thank you, Jem.” She favored him with one of her rare smiles, which won for her his even deeper devotion.

Vauxhall looked more familiar on this occasion, though Margaret felt even more nervous than before. That last time, if Richard had recognized her, she felt that she could somehow have talked her way out of an awkward situation. It could all have been explained as a joke. She could have pretended a wager with Charlotte that he would not recognize her. But this time, things had gone too far. Richard would really feel he had been made a fool of if he discovered the truth now.

She saw him almost immediately, arms crossed on his chest, leaning against a tree beside the path where she had first caught his attention the week before. She shivered with fear for a moment; he looked very tall and almost menacing, with his black domino drawn closely around him and a black mask that covered more of his face than last week’s had a done. He obviously did not want to be recognized. Then he pushed himself away from the tree and stood straight. He had seen her.

Margaret smiled dazzlingly, fluttering her fan briskly, and forced a spring into her step as she approached him along the path.

“Angel!” he said, reaching out both hands to grasp hers.

“Ah, monsieur, you came,” she said brightly, tapping both his outstretched palms lightly with her closed fan.

“Did you doubt I would?”

“But yes, monsieur,” she answered pertly. “I know it is ‘ard for a man to be faithful to one woman,
n‘est-ce pas?”

“Ah, but it would not be hard to be faithful to you, I think, little wretch,” he said, and he grasped her elbow lightly and began to stroll with her down the path in the direction from which she had come.

“Are we to dance, monsieur?” she asked. “I have been granted the permission to waltz. Remember?”

“Do you really wish to dance?” he asked.

“But yes,” she said. “It is so lovely to dance beneath the stars, no? With someone special,” she added daringly, flirting her fan at him.

Brampton was dazzled. He could not decide whether she was a practiced coquette or a delightful little innocent. He hoped the latter. He had not planned to waste time in the gardens with her. He wanted her alone. But he was willing to humor her; he wanted this night to be a long and a perfect one. “Come, then, little angel,” he said, taking her hand and drawing it through his arm, “let us go see if the orchestra will play a waltz.”

The orchestra was playing many waltzes. The dance was favored by the guests as suited to the romantic outdoor setting and to the masked appearance of many of the revelers, who felt they could relax the strict propriety of their behavior.

Brampton drew his companion into the circle of his arms as one waltz started. He held her closer than he would have dared to in a ballroom. Her breasts, firmly held within the heavy bodice of her gown, brushed tantalizingly against the black fabric of his domino. Her powdered wig tickled his cheek and chin.

She moved lightly, her little body picking up the rhythm of his, so that he felt she was floating in his arms. At first, he whirled her through the steps of the dance, exhilarated by the reality of her presence in his arms. Later, his feet slowed, he steered her to the edge of the dancing area, where they were more in the shadow of the trees, and pulled her more firmly against the hard wall of his body. He felt desire stir in him and lowered his head to brush her lips with his. He felt her inhale sharply.

“Angel,” he whispered against her ear, “I do not want to share you with these crowds. Will you come with me?”

“Where do you wish me to go with you, monsieur?” she asked, raising her eyes to his so that he had a sensation of drowning.

“To a quiet place where we can be alone,” he answered, gazing back.

“I do not know,” she whispered.

“Yes, my little one, you do know,” he murmured gently. “We both know why we have returned her tonight. Do we not?”

She held his gaze for a breathless moment. “Yes,” she said softly.

“Come,” he said, kissing her lightly on the lips again, and he led her in silence down a tree-lined avenue to a different exit from the one at which she had entered. She wondered fleetingly if Jem would be able to follow her, but she was in no state of mind to really care.

Brampton handed his wife into his oh-so-familiar town carriage and directed the coachman to Devin Northcott’s chambers before springing in to sit close beside her.

They passed through the lit hallway of the stately old house in which Devin Northcott had his rooms and up to the second story. Brampton took a branched candlestick with them, lighting the candles before they climbed the stairs.

He set it down on the hall stand, unfastened the single button at the throat of Margaret’s gray cloak, and slipped it from her shoulders. He threw his own black coat to join it on a nearby chair, and removed his mask. He looked so achingly familiar, dressed in the same black evening clothes he had worn the night before. It was hard for Margaret to believe that he did not know her.

But if she had any doubt on that point, the look in his eyes would have undeceived her. He had certainly never looked at the Countess of Brampton with such smoldering desire.

Brampton held out his hand for hers and led her, without prelude, to a bedchamber. He took the candlestick with him. The light from the candles lit up a large room with heavy, stately furniture, including a big four-poster bed, its blue velvet curtains drawn back, bedclothes turned down to reveal snowy-white sheets and pillowcases. Darker-blue velvet curtains were drawn back from the four windows, so that moonlight helped illuminate the room.

Margaret felt panic growing. This was the point of no return, then. She could not possibly now turn the evening away from its inevitable conclusion. And soon, surely, he would know with whom he was dealing.

Brampton set the candlestick down on the dressing table so that the light from the candles was doubled by the reflections from the mirror.

“Come here, angel,” he said, holding out his arms to her.

Margaret was still standing uncertainly just inside the door. She went into his arms and felt them close around her.

“And now,” he murmured, smiling into her eyes, “finally, let us get rid of this mask and this wig, my angel. Let me see you.”

“Ah, no, monsieur,” she said anxiously, pushing against his chest. “Please, I cannot do that.”

Brampton tightened his hold on her. “What is it, my sweet?” he coaxed, puzzled. “Do you not trust me? I shall not hurt you or betray you to anyone else, even if you turn out to be Princess Caroline herself.” He paused and grinned wickedly. “You are not Princess Caroline, are you, angel? It would be tiresome to have to call you ‘Your Highness’ while I make love to you.”

Margaret laughed at the absurd look on his face. “I shall not answer yes or no, monsieur,” she said archly. “But I insist that you must not see me.”

He sighed in exasperation. “Angel, will you compromise?” he asked. “If I extinguish the candles and pull the curtains across the windows so that we cannot see a hand before our faces, will you unmask for me? Please, my sweet?” he begged as she hesitated. “I cannot make love to you if I cannot at least
feel
your face and your hair.”

“How do you know that I wish you to make love to me, monsieur?” she asked, tapping him briskly on the shoulder with the fan that she still clutched.

“I assume, little wretch,” he replied, “that when you step willingly into a bedchamber with a man, you do not do so in order to discuss the weather or the state of the nation!”

“Snuff the candles, monsieur, and draw the curtains,” Margaret said. “Then I shall give you my answer.”

He did as he was bid. The result was everything Margaret could have wished. She could see nothing whatsoever. Neither could he, apparently. She heard a thud, followed by an oath, as he found his way back to her.

“You owe me a ‘yes’ angel,” he said close to her ear as he reached out to take her arm, “to make up for the crushed ankle I just acquired.”