Candice Hern (9 page)

The bishop had been right. Without him around to guide her, the frail nature of her virtue had indeed been compromised. The first man to show an interest in her, however insincere or opportune, had broken down defenses that had been over ten years in the building. Grace had shown herself to be precisely the weak-willed female her husband had warned her against.

And yet ...

She felt alive. Rochdale was going to kiss her tonight, and she was not entirely averse to the idea. All week long, her head had been spinning with memories of his kiss in the carriage. The very fact of remembering was surely a sin, but she couldn't help it. She recalled every detail.

Her body had shimmered to life in a way it had never done before — never been allowed to before — and the recollection of it had consumed her. Grace had always suspected there was more to what men and women, husbands and wives, shared together physically. She had instinctively reached out for it in the first days of her marriage, before she'd learned it was wrong and had to be suppressed.

For all of her adult life, she'd known the sort of feelings Rochdale's kiss had provoked were sinful. But then her friends had begun to speak candidly about lovers and lovemaking and intimacies she'd never imagined. As much as their confidences embarrassed her, Grace knew they were not depraved, evil women. Even Wilhelmina, with her colorful history, was not immoral. When they spoke so openly and joyously of physical passion, it had not sounded wicked. It sounded ... exciting.

Grace had never, of course, admitted to them any of her perverse thoughts. She allowed them to believe in her prudish disapproval. But she had listened and silently pondered all they said.

Now, she knew in her heart that they'd been right, and she was shamefully anxious to taste once again a little bit of what they'd described. Just a little bit. One kiss, that was all, and then she'd toss the rogue out of her life for good. She would not give him the chance to take it any further.

It still made no sense that Rochdale was interested in her at all. The bishop had warned Grace that men would be drawn to her beauty and would make illicit overtures. Perhaps that was all it was with Rochdale. He was attracted by her looks. Grace was not a vain woman, but she knew the face she saw in the mirror was a pretty one. Her husband had commented on it often enough, and she was sure that he'd enjoyed having a pretty woman at his side. Under his tutelage, though, she had learned never to flaunt her looks, to use them to draw attention to herself, or to become too prideful about what God had given her. For years she had given little or no thought to the way she looked, and while the bishop was alive no man would have dared to cast her an admiring glance.

Since his death, her public persona was still so tied to the bishop that no men indicated any sort of interest in her. Or if they had, Grace had not been aware of it. Perhaps because she hadn't looked for it, had not really wanted it. Not until her friends began discussing their interest in various gentlemen had Grace even considered that a man might look at her in that way. Just her luck that the moment she became aware of such things, the one man who'd made his interest loud and clear was the most lecherous cad in London.

Despite Rochdale's unsavory reputation, Grace could not help being flattered that he found her beautiful. She was only human, after all. She would have to be careful, however, not to allow flattery to persuade her to take things too far. One kiss, and no more. She had a feeling Rochdale would not be satisfied with one kiss, but that was where it would end. In the long run, she could never truly be a Merry Widow. She could never take a lover. Grace was a respectable churchwoman who lived a life of impeccable propriety. She was the Bishop's Widow. And always would be.

Except that it was not the Bishop's Widow who looked back at her from the mirror.

He
had done this to her.
He
had teased her about being tight-laced and unbending.
He
had talked about taking risks, about stepping outside of everyone's expectations.
He
had forced her to show him that he was wrong about her.

The costume she wore would certainly do that. It was neither tight-laced nor buttoned up. It was light and loose and free. Grace felt like a ... well, like a fairy queen. She felt beautiful, and for the first time in years, feeling beautiful did not seem so very wrong.

The rest of her costume lay on the bed. She reached for the pretty mask made all of pink silk rose petals and put it on, tying the ribbons underneath her hair. She picked up the matching gossamer silk shawl, if one could call such a wisp of fabric a shawl, and headed out the door.

The instant she left the safety of her rooms, her skin prickled with anxiety. Was she making a huge mistake? She was a patroness of the ball, after all. Perhaps the costume was too immodest. But it was too late to change now. There wasn't time. She dashed back into the dressing room, rummaged around a drawer, and pulled out an enormous paisley shawl. Standing before the mirror, she wrapped it around herself. Perfect. It was so big that almost none of the costume beneath was visible. It looked a bit odd, but she could claim to be chilled.

There was no time to do anything about her hair, though.

She tossed the gossamer shawl toward the bed. It floated gracefully, buoyed by a tiny current of air made by the mere movement of her arm in throwing it. She watched it flutter and billow in delicate waves until it landed in an elegant drift of pink silk upon the counterpane.

That was how she had felt only a moment ago. Lighter than air. Fairylike.

Grace took one more look at herself in the mirror and frowned. God help her, for once in her life she wanted to float. She wanted to take one small risk, just to show him, and herself, that she could.

She let the heavy shawl drop to the floor, picked up the gossamer silk, and left the room.

* * *

Rochdale arrived late to the ball, as he generally did. He disliked the ceremony of a receiving line, where the host and hostess pretended to be happy that he had graced their humble gathering with his presence. It was always an awkward affair. Either he was friendly with the husband, perhaps a fellow gamester, and the wife made no secret of her disapproval of him, or he'd bedded the wife and had to look her oblivious husband in the face.

Tonight's receiving line would have included not only the Duke and Duchess of Doncaster — fortunately, he had only a nodding acquaintance with each of them — but all the patronesses of the Benevolent Widows Fund who sponsored the event and required hefty donations to the charity from each attendee.

Grace Marlowe, who chaired the board of trustees, would likely be at the top of the line, but Rochdale did not want to face her in that formal atmosphere with all her friends looking on. He preferred a more private meeting, which meant he needed to study the lay of the land, searching for the perfect secluded spot.

So he'd arrived late, but well before the unmasking at midnight, and wove his way through the crowd, trying to be unobtrusive. Not an easy task at a masquerade, where everyone openly stared at everyone else, hoping to discover the identities beneath the masks. Rochdale imagined that most people recognized him fairly easily, as he had not gone to great lengths to disguise himself. He was dressed as a highwayman of the last century, complete with powdered bag wig, black tricorne, black mask, black skirted coat, and long top boots. The polished butts of two pistols tucked into the top of his breeches twinkled in the candlelight, as did a large ruby stickpin in the white lace at his throat. Truth be told, he felt rather dashing. It was the perfect guise in which to abduct his prim heroine for a passionate kiss in the dark.

Doncaster House was huge and brightly lit — three enormous chandeliers in the ballroom held hundreds of candles; standing torchères, candelabra, and sconces lit every other room and corridor — and required a bit of reconnoitering. Finally, Rochdale found a secluded anteroom that would serve his purpose.

But he had yet to find Grace. Since he had no idea what costume to look for, he studied every female form that looked to be the right height and age. There were noblewomen of every century: toga-clad Roman empresses, 13th and 14th century ladies in tall pointed hats and long-waisted gowns, 16th century ladies in farthingales with enormous ruffs at their necks, and 18th century ladies in towering wigs and wide skirts. There were princesses from every region of the globe, Arabia to China to Russia, and one young dark-haired woman in beaded buckskin wearing feathers in her hair. Queens from France and Egypt and England — more than one Queen Elizabeth, in fact. There were goddesses and milkmaids and shepherdesses. Birds, cats, and one elegant tigress.

But no Bishop's Widow.

Other widows and willing matrons caught his eye, though, and recognized him. Two blatantly proclaimed their availability for assignations later that evening, but Rochdale declined both invitations. He had only one woman on his mind tonight. As he continued to search for her, it occurred to him that a kiss was a far thing from a sexual assignation, and there was no reason to have declined those two offers. He chuckled at his own foolishness. Once upon a time, he'd have entertained both women and still sought out a third. He must be getting old that he could concentrate on only one woman at a time. And one who would not even warm his bed tonight.

Where was she? He wondered if she had grown craven and stayed away. But no, this was
her
charity ball, and regardless of how much she might want to avoid kissing him, she would not fail in her obligations. Nor did he imagine she would go back on her promise to him. Rochdale had won their wager legitimately, without guile or trickery, and he believed she had a core of honor that would not allow her to break her word. No, she was here somewhere in this vast mansion, and he would find her.

He caught a glimpse of a nun and smiled to think that Grace might have found such a costume appropriate, but when the nun turned toward him he saw it was the Duchess of Doncaster, his hostess. His gaze continued to sweep the room until it landed on a woman in a loose white robe, belted at the waist, wearing a long red wig and carrying a shield. She was either Boadicea or perhaps Athena, he could not be sure. But he had no doubt of her identity. It was Wilhelmina, the dowager Duchess of Hertford. She was smiling and talking with a Harlequin, a cavalier, and a woman with her back to him dressed in the palest pink with a long blond wig hanging past her waist and threaded with tiny pink flowers. Two transparent pink wings jutted from her shoulders. A fairy princess, he supposed. Or the Faerie Queen.

He decided he would approach the duchess and see if he could cajole her into revealing the costumes of her fellow patronesses. It would save him a great deal of time if only he knew what Grace Marlowe was wearing.

The closer Rochdale got, the more interested he became in the blond fairy. So much so that he momentarily forgot all about Grace Marlowe. She was a beautiful fairy, at least from the rear. The silky pink fabric of her dress clung to her curves rather nicely. But it was the hair that attracted him most. He'd always had a weakness for long hair, especially long blond hair, and even though this fairy's hair was surely a wig, it was nevertheless alluring: a thick golden mass hanging straight and heavy, its weight swaying slightly as she moved. Perhaps Wilhelmina would introduce him.

But no. Introductions were not necessary at a masquerade, where identities were allowed to be kept secret. He could simply stroll up and invite the pink fairy to dance. Assuming she wasn't hatchet-faced when she turned around.

The orchestra members were tuning up their instruments for the next dance, and the lines were beginning to form. Even without music, the din of a hundred conversations filled the air. But somehow, above the noise, a sound reached him that brought him to a halt. He almost collided with a turbaned Turk, and mumbled an apology. And there it was again. That luscious sound. One he recognized well. The rich, deep-throated, incongruously voluptuous laughter of Grace Marlowe.

And the damnedest thing was that it seemed to be coming from the pink fairy. It couldn't be Grace. Could it?

He moved closer until he was standing only a few feet away, when she happened to glance over her shoulder as though looking for someone. And her gaze collided with his.

Grace Marlowe. Even masked, he knew her at once. Her eyes widened behind a mask of pink flower petals when she seemed to realize who he was, but she turned toward him and acknowledged his presence with a cool nod.

Well, well. She had surprised him yet again. Grace Marlowe, the fairy queen, was nothing short of breathtaking. Rochdale had to admit that even had there been no wager, he'd have been drawn to her tonight. He'd be willing to bet his second best horse, however, that she'd never have come dressed as she was had there been no wager. For without it, he would never have kissed her. No question about it, the kiss had changed her somehow. The costume was for his benefit. He was sure of it. And it amused him that she had dressed so provocatively for him, just to prove that she wasn't as predictably prim as he'd suggested.

Her pink dress was so silky and light that it floated like a cloud when she moved, falling against the curve of her hip, swaying softly, then clinging to her thigh. Thousands of tiny silver stars were sewn into the silk, catching the candlelight as the fabric swayed and swirled. Pink ribbons embroidered with flowers fell from beneath her bosom all the way to the floor.

And what a lovely bosom it was. The dress was not as revealing as many others, but it showed more of Grace Marlowe's charms than he'd ever beheld before. Even the sight of those pale rounded breasts, pushed up high by her stays, could not distract Rochdale from her hair. It shone gleaming gold in the candlelight — glossy as old silver, thick and straight — with sections here and there braided with small flowers. He ought to have known it was not a wig. This was Grace's hair. And it was magnificent.

He had an almost uncontrollable urge to lift its weight in his hands and comb his fingers through it.