Candice Hern (11 page)

Lord, she was lost to wickedness. To immorality. He'd done this to her. She could have stayed in that cozy room with him for hours, letting him make her body tingle, setting off a heat in her blood like a deadly fever. She could have stayed. She'd
wanted
to stay. And that was what made her leave. The wanting. The novelty of unleashed cravings.

And all this for a man she could barely tolerate as a human being. A man whose life was marked with dissipation and debauchery and scandal. A man she would normally cross the street to avoid. And yet she had felt a glimmering of desire for him. More than a glimmer. Much more. How was that possible when she disliked him so? Was she so superficial that she could ignore his character because he was handsome?

Perhaps it was not really her fault. Perhaps that was why he was such a notorious rake — women could not resist him. Grace certainly could not, God help her.

As she leaned back against a pillar in the ballroom, wielding her fan against the warmth that still flushed her skin, she thought she might actually collapse from dizziness — not so much of the head, though her brain roiled in confusion, but of the soul. She no longer knew who she was. She wanted, but did not want. She felt lost, but also found. Grace had never been so confused in all her life. Even if her inner turmoil made her doubt everything about herself, outwardly she knew her role. Grace Marlowe did not collapse or swoon. She held her head high and faced the world with confidence. She would do so now and for the rest of the evening. It was what was expected of her.

She pushed away from the pillar and almost collided with a court jester. She recognized him as Lord Dewesbury and allowed him to sweep her into the country dance already in progress.

Grace danced with two other gentlemen, both known to her, both respectable, and both effusive in their compliments on her costume. Discounting the encounter with Rochdale, she found she rather enjoyed being the object of gentlemen's admiration, and decided the costume was not a complete mistake. It did no harm, she supposed, for Society to be reminded that she was a woman and not a fragile porcelain doll.

As much as she tried to put what had happened in the anteroom behind her, she was constantly distracted by the sight of that roguish highwayman, who seemed to be everywhere. Her eyes were reluctantly drawn to him. She wanted to ignore him, tried to ignore him, but she could not even pretend disinterest.

She silently scolded herself for a fool as she watched him with other women, dancing and laughing and flirting. It was ridiculous to think he truly had a special interest in
her
. He was interested in anything in skirts. There was nothing more between him and Grace than an accidental encounter that had placed them in a carriage together, and a silly wager that took advantage of the moment.

Once, though, his gaze landed upon hers with an intensity that made her feel like the only woman in the room. Then he smiled, and his face took on a look of open desire as he caressed her with his eyes.

Dear God, she was truly wicked. Otherwise she'd be able to control the rapid beat of her heart, the gooseflesh on her arms, the fluttering low in her belly merely at the sight of his smile.

She stumbled in the dance — while Rochdale was still looking, damn him.

"Steady on," her partner said as he tightened his grip on her arm.

Rochdale appeared to laugh, and a feverish flush of embarrassment warmed every inch of her. Grace hated the sensation, which she'd only rarely experienced until recently, and silently cursed her fair skin and the ease with which it could grow pink. Just as she had learned to maintain her composure at all times in public, she had long ago mastered the heat that could color her skin. The bishop had gently chided her for harboring thoughts so shameful they made her blush. If she felt shame or embarrassment or horror, she was to keep such feelings in check and only give in to them within the privacy of prayer. Though he'd never said so directly, he'd made it clear that a red-faced wife reflected badly on a man in his position.

Grace had schooled herself well and it was now second nature to her to curb any untoward emotions from coloring her face. But this spring, when her friends had begun speaking so openly about the intimate details of their private lives, Grace had been unprepared for such talk and her fair skin reacted before she could control it.

That had been in private with female friends, however. Blushing in public like a giddy schoolgirl was mortifying. And she seemed to have lost the ability to master it. It was Rochdale's fault. He'd made her blush more times than she could count. Just looking at him made her think of his kisses, which sent heat spreading over her face and down her neck and across her bosom and shoulders, a rampant flush of warmth pinking her skin in its wake. There was no stopping it.

Everyone in the room would be able to see the telltale flush, announcing her wickedness to all the world. Just as the bishop had warned her.

She turned away and deliberately avoided Rochdale, and the blushes he caused, for the rest of the evening.

After a particularly lively reel, Grace curtsied to her partner, turned, and found Wilhelmina at her side. "It is almost midnight," the duchess said as she tossed a ridiculously long red curl over her shoulder. The wig fell about her like a cape. "Time for the unmasking. I don't suppose you will be surprised to learn the identity of a certain highwayman who swept you away earlier."

Grace felt her cheeks flame. Again. It seemed the mere mention of the man could set her off. "No, I knew him at once."

"And still danced with him."

"It would have been rude to refuse. Especially as a patroness."

"I suppose so." Wilhelmina's head cocked to one side and Grace could feel the intensity of her gaze even behind the black mask she wore. "He is showing an uncommon interest in you, my dear. I confess, I am rather astonished."

"No more than I, believe me."

"I hope you will not mind a word of advice." Wilhelmina switched Boadicea's shield to her other hand and pulled Grace close so she could be heard above the general noise without being overheard. "Be careful with him. He has the skill and experience to turn a woman's head before she knows what hit her. Take your pleasure from him, if that is what you desire, but guard your heart and soul. He will thrill you between the sheets, but he gets bored easily and can be callous when he deems an affair is over."

"Good heavens, Wilhelmina, I am not having an affair with Lord Rochdale!"

"Not yet. But clearly he is wooing you, something I've never known him to do. He's never had to woo anyone, after all, when there are always women throwing themselves in his path. But you interest him, Grace, and I will not be surprised if you succumb to his seduction."

"No, no, I could
never
—"

Wilhelmina held up a hand. "Never say 'never,' my dear. It saves a great deal of embarrassing explanation later. I am not warning you against an affair with Rochdale. Quite the opposite. There is no one better to teach you the joys of sexual pleasure, to teach you not to be afraid of that part of your nature. I just don't want you to get hurt. So, in time, if you decide it is something you want to do, go into it with both eyes open, knowing that it will be no more than a charming interlude. Do not expect constancy or exclusivity. Take what he offers and ask for no more."

Grace frowned. "It sounds as though you speak from experience. Were you and Lord Rochdale ..."

"I have known many men like him. Libertines, pleasure-seekers, immoral cads."

The noncommittal response gave Grace an odd twinge of distaste that she might have been kissing a man who had been intimate with her friend.

"All I am saying is to be careful," Wilhelmina continued. "This is new territory for you, Grace. An exciting adventure. Just ... be prepared. Do not jump in feet first without knowing what to expect."

"Thank you, Wilhelmina, but I doubt it will go that far. Rochdale is just flirting. Teasing. Nothing more."

Wilhelmina took her hand and squeezed it. "If it threatens to become something more and you need someone to talk to, promise you will come to me."

Grace smiled. Despite her low birth, Wilhelmina was one of the finest women she knew. A true and loyal friend. She returned the squeeze. "I promise. But I __"

"Hey ho, my queens." Penelope approached, looking deceptively demure in her dairymaid costume. "It's been a grand success, has it not? I believe everyone we invited has made an appearance. And this ballroom ... my stars, isn't it splendid? What a coup that Beatrice was able to secure it for us. It's a shame she isn't here to see it. Speaking of looking splendid, I still cannot get over your costume, Grace. You are positively gorgeous tonight. And I'm not the only one who noticed. I saw Rochdale dancing with you earlier. The man could not take his eyes off you! First flowers and now this? What a cunning little vixen —"

"It's time for the unmasking." The fourth Widows Fund trustee, Marianne, joined the group. She was dressed as a gypsy dancer, which suited her dark coloring. Blazing candlelight from the famous chandeliers picked up the gold of her long earrings and dozens of bracelets clinking at her wrists. "Our last ball of the Season. A success, to be sure. But my heart aches for poor Beatrice. I wish she had decided to join us."

"It is about to begin," Penelope said. "There are Doncaster and the duchess."

Grace watched their host, dressed as Cardinal Wolsey and looking especially jolly, and their hostess, beaming in a full nun's habit, approach the dais where the orchestra sat. They were followed by a maharaja who Grace recognized as their son, the Marquess of Thayne, and a yellow-clad Artemis. "Is that ... is that Beatrice?"

"My God, it is," Wilhelmina said. "Thayne has her arm. You do not suppose —"

"May I have your attention, please." The duke held up his hand until all conversation came to a halt. "Before we unmask, the duchess and I would like to make an announcement. I invite you to take a glass of champagne before we proceed."

Grace became aware that a small army of liveried footmen had entered the ballroom carrying trays of champagne glasses and were now circulating throughout. She and her friends each took a glass and shared speculative glances and smiles of anticipation. All of them were surely thinking, hoping the same thing: their friend had found happiness out of scandal.

After a few minutes, the duke called for quiet again and raised his glass. In a booming voice, he said, "The duchess and I are pleased to have this festive occasion to announce the betrothal of our son, Lord Thayne, to Lady Somerfield. Please lift your glasses with me in a toast to their happiness."

The four trustees burst into huge smiles and clinked their glasses together.

"Well done," Wilhelmina said.

"Oh, isn't it wonderful?" Marianne's voice grew wobbly and her eyes glistened with tears.

"Yes, yes, yes!" Grace lifted her glass high in salute. She had been sure that the scandal caused by the public and very ugly manner in which their secret love affair had been revealed, and all that had happened since that dreadful night, would have ruined any hope of happiness for Beatrice. She was so very glad to have been wrong.

But she suddenly became aware that the room was rather quiet, that the reaction to the announcement had been subdued and overly polite. She glanced at Wilhelmina, who seemed to have the same thought as she looked about the room and frowned.

"What is wrong with everyone?" Marianne whispered. "This is almost worse than the night of the scandal."

"That's the problem," Wilhelmina said, still frowning. "They think it is a patched-up betrothal meant to salvage Beatrice's reputation. Not a happy occasion, but merely a necessary and rather embarrassing one. The idiots. The duke wouldn't make such a public fuss if it was a marriage of convenience. Can't they see ... Aha! Good for Thayne. Ha!"

Lord Thayne had taken Beatrice in his arms and was kissing her quite thoroughly. There were a few gasps of shock, but the room remained awkwardly silent, the guests seeming not to know what to make of this brazen display.

Wilhelmina uttered a derisive snort, placed her champagne glass on the tray of a nearby footman, then looped her shield over her shoulder. She moved to the center of the room and began to clap her hands. Loudly. Grace, Penelope, and Marianne looked at each other, handed their glasses to the same footman, and went to stand beside Wilhelmina. All four of them applauded and cheered the happy couple, who were still in each other's arms as they turned their heads and smiled in acknowledgment of the applause.

That was all it took. The room erupted in more applause and cheering and shouting and whistling. The betrothed couple kissed again, and the ruckus grew louder and more bawdy. It became a truly joyful moment.

The mood of the crowd changed, lightened, brightened — perfect for the unmasking that followed. The duke then called for a dance and led his duchess to the dance floor, followed by Thayne and Beatrice. Couples quickly formed to join in the celebratory reel. Adam Cazenove, dressed as a pirate, appeared out of nowhere to claim a beaming Marianne for the dance. Eustace Tolliver, garbed as Pierrot and never far from Penelope's side, came for his favorite partner, with Lord Ingleby, in Centurion gear, close behind to offer his arm to Wilhelmina. Grace smiled and guessed that their little joke was surely deliberate: the Roman soldier and the warrior queen who fought against him.

"May I have this dance?"

The familiar voice behind her brought Grace out of her euphoric mood, and a completely different brand of excitement sent a tremor across her shoulders. Her friends, who'd all begun to move away, each turned, almost in unison, and witnessed Grace's momentary discomposure and telltale blush. She collected herself at once and calmly pivoted to find the highwayman, unmasked and smiling, holding out a hand to her.

"I hope I am fortunate enough to find you free for this set," he said.

Grace sensed that her friends had halted their progress to the dance floor and were still watching, in varying degrees of astonishment, behind her. The pairing of the Libertine and the Bishop's Widow was as laughable as Boadicea and the Centurion, as unimaginable to them as it still was for her. She could not refuse him, of course, as she was not engaged for this set. What she kept to herself, however, folded and sealed in a tight little secret, was the fact that she did not wish to refuse him.