Love, Unmasked (3 page)

“Will you give me your name?”

Brightenburg’s smile gleamed in the candlelight, somewhere between dazzling and downright wicked. Red and gold highlights glinted in his dark hair, reflected in the satin of his mask, flowed down his shoulders and chest along the maroon wool, tapering into shadows at his waist, and below that—

Fidelity jerked her gaze up. From across the line he watched her watching him, full lips pulled into a sideways smirk.
His lips on hers…
what would it be like? Did she dare find out tonight? He looked willing. Actually, he looked like Adonis, awaiting her exploring fingers; like Icarus, blazing and bright before his fall. The music started, a lively tune, and somewhere to her right movement began as the first couple, whoever they were, initiated the dance.

She’d waited so long for a night of her own. The reality was everything she’d dreamed of while hidden away in her boudoir — everything and more. Those weren’t imaginary toes curling, and if her heart pitter-pattered any faster, it would take off from out of her chest like a startled hummingbird.

She looked away, sucked in a steadying breath, and stepped sideways with the group, advancing along the dance’s line. “My name? Correct me if I’m wrong, but wouldn’t that defeat the entire purpose of a masked ball?”

His eyebrows quirked in a humorous arch. “What good can come of not knowing one’s partner?”

The leading couple danced down the line — of course, the Maynards’ niece, Brenda, skipping along arm in arm with Mr. Culver. It wasn’t the first time the two had opened a ball together, but for some reason, the poor girl seemed pleased with her choice, glowing with delight as she approached then swishing past in a flash of icy muslin. In the line opposite, Brightenburg’s gaze followed the couple’s path, eyeing the girl’s backside — his target was impossible to miss — and tracing down toward the pale skin of her ankles, visible beneath her hemline as her skirts flared around her.

Fidelity’s fluttery excitement stilled, leaving her surprised and a trifle hurt. Willing, aye, he certainly seemed
that
. Granted, Belinda Maynard was a pretty girl and reportedly sweet-natured; her dowry was not inconsiderable. But a truly well-bred gentleman would reserve such attentions for his partner.

Brightenburg swung back around. His eyes had narrowed, his lip curled; he’d enjoyed the view, in a very basic way. Fidelity stifled a snort.
Basic, indeed.
And with her oh-so-brilliant plan, who was she to find fault?

That curled lip was entirely too roguish. She looked away and pretended not to notice his slight. The dancers swirled around her. Satins and silks flashed in the chandeliers’ blaze, delicate lace forming pale accents, flowers providing bright ones. The gentlemen’s maroons, deep blues, and sober blacks strengthened the line. Several dancers wore that new green silk everyone was raving about; she’d nearly bought it instead of the celestial blue, but the extra expense had been fearful. It was beautiful, though.

Partway down the line, a familiar and charming smile caught her eye. Blue Tailcoat chatted with a young lady in primrose yellow, and Fidelity blinked before she recognized Georgette, demure and delightful behind her half-mask. The change from the hoyden who’d helped terrorize the morning room last week was astounding. Perhaps there was hope for that girl yet.
Well… perhaps.

Still not their turn. With so many couples in the line, the dance could last ten minutes or more. Fidelity folded her hands and didn’t bother to hide her smug little smile. Ten minutes with Sylvestre Brightenburg was no punishment.

Even if his eye tended to wander. She’d noticed that tendency in him before; why hadn’t she been prepared to endure it?

He cleared his throat. “If admiration grows between us, wouldn’t it be preferable if we could find each other after the evening’s entertainment is past? And if we decide our personalities and tastes don’t suit, wouldn’t it be better if we knew to avoid each other’s company?”

“Oh, but there’s excitement in mystery.” Her moment of satisfaction had softened the sting of his slight, and her voice held steady. Of course he hadn’t hurt her on purpose, and hadn’t she been thrilled mere minutes ago for having any of Sylvestre Brightenburg’s attention, any at all? “Wouldn’t it be better to allow our mutual admiration or otherwise to grow without interference from prior assumptions? Perish the thought, but if I’d previously formed a dislike for the cut of your jib—”
as if that were possible
— “then a few hours of mystery now might go far to change that opinion.”

He scowled.
So quickly his mood changes.
“At least tell me your residence.” No gruffness in his tone, nor wheedling, but a firmness that spoke of determination. “St. James’s Square, I’ll be bound. You’ve the air and deportment of a duchess.”

The pounding of her heart intensified. She’d thought their bantering a game, but his scowl gave her pause. He was serious, determined to learn her identity, and her thrill deepened, shivering her from hair to slippers.

Sylvestre Brightenburg, London’s
beau
to end all
beaux
, intended to peer beneath her mask.

Excellent.

“And the gown,” he added, his glance roving over her and lingering at her bosom. “That’s the gown of a noblewoman, to be sure.”

Only his gaze touched her, but it scorched like a physical flame. Fidelity tingled, all too aware of his nearness, his strength, his heat, and the tingling rippled out from her center to places she didn’t normally think about while in company. If he could cause such exquisite sensations with only a look, what of his lips? his hands? his…

And still he stared. The need to squirm rose within her, tempering the lovely tingling and tamping her internal fire down to a dim glow. That was altogether too long and too intimate a stare for such a gathering. If witnessed, tongues would begin wagging:
Sylvestre Brightenburg’s got his eye on that wench in blue, the one in the shameless dress. Who is she?
And surely everyone in the ballroom was already transfixed by the spectacle of Brightenburg making a spectacle of her. No need to look; she could feel their stares, just as she felt his.

No, catching the public fancy would spoil everything. She’d be watched, hounded, followed home, and she’d never be able to slip away from the ballroom unobserved, the most crucial step in executing her plan without ruining herself the rest of the way. (
Was it possible to be just a little bit ruined? Curious thought.
) A chance to retire to somewhere more private with
a
certain gentleman
would never present itself if the entire crowd watched her, and her evening’s effort would be wasted.

Because she’d never work up the nerve to try her brilliant plan a second time.

Fidelity turned sideways, giving Brightenburg a good view of her shoulder, and peered back along the line. Georgette still stood in position, her smile mischievous but at least not outrageously so, and Blue Tailcoat seemed charmed as well as charming. Fidelity kept looking. A pale pink gown two positions further along, another pale pink past the emerald silk, more pale pink toward the end — but no deep puce, the shade of a dusky rose. No Jessica. Not good.

The music lifted and it was finally their turn. She advanced to meet Brightenburg, almost to kissing distance —
far too warm in this ballroom
;
what on earth were the Maynards thinking with that massive fire?
— then they retreated back to the line, cut behind their waiting neighbors in a round robin, traded places with them, advanced again. Her feet and body performed without her conscious assistance, her attention mesmerized by the gold flecks in Brightenburg’s eyes. Admiring him was delightful; dancing with him was electrifying. His every step hit the beat precisely —
if only mine did
— and his grace made her feel clumsy in comparison.

Still he stared at her, his lip curling again. What on earth was he seeing in her expression that riveted him so? Whatever it was, the thought of him reading her secret intentions so clearly sent said intentions scurrying for shelter, to somewhere deep within her, and she quailed. Her heart pounded, and not only with the exercise. No, she couldn’t go through with it. Yes, she could. No—

His arms entwined with hers, breaking her ridiculous roundabout of indecision, and they turned, skipping together between the lines toward the far end. That lovely heat began again, centered beneath his forearm where it pressed against her stomach, far too intimate a touch and not at all proper, no matter how much her decadent half enjoyed it. Oh, this wasn’t working out at all as she’d planned. Those eyes, encircling them around the ballroom — they followed her every motion, catalogued his every flirtation. Witnesses; far far too many witnesses for her to slip away.

Frantic for a diversion, Fidelity again scanned the ballroom as they danced along, the deep colors of the men’s attire flashing past on one side, the pale and brilliant shades of the women’s on the other. A gentleman wearing a sober black Melton coat and a plain black mask stood near the doors to the card room, chatting with Mrs. Maynard. The coat looked rather like Grey’s, but the man himself wasn’t quite… too tall, too stocky? Or was she merely misjudging the perspective? It was the closest she’d seen to Grey’s disreputable old coat, the one he wore nearly everywhere, and yet she couldn’t convince herself it was he.

Frowning, she kept looking. No puce gowns along the front half of the line. None near the musicians’ dais or the refreshment area. Thankfully, none near the fun crowd, thanks be for small blessings.

At the line’s end they separated, his fingers sliding through hers and brushing her hip in passing. She rounded Brenda Maynard, still smiling and with a damp glow tugging the curl from her bangs, and then Fidelity danced back behind the distaff line. Not near the stairs, nor at the entrance to the card room—

There. Closing in on the door to the gardens, a dusky rose gown, walking far too close beside a tall masculine form decked out in those dandified formal trousers Beau Brummell wore to such effect. Any young man wearing those was automatically not a suitable companion for one of her cousins, certainly not outside among the heady scents of the slumbering earth, and most certainly not without a chaperone.

And the behavior she expected from her young cousins had no bearing whatsoever on the behavior she couldn’t decide whether to expect from herself.

Without pausing, Fidelity danced right past her place in line. Ducking her chin, she eased to a gliding walk, slid through the crowd of watchers, ignored the increasing whispers and turning heads, wended her way between bodies toward the far corner at the fastest pace she dared, and cut her cousin and Trousers off at the door.

“And precisely where do you think you’re going, young lady?”

Jessica’s ribbons bobbed as she jumped. “F— for pity’s sake,
Diana
, you startled me.”

Trousers released Jessica’s arm as if she’d electrified him. His red mask flared in the candlelight, a strong masculine statement, but his guilty grin spoke more of a schoolroom too recently left.

“You most certainly weren’t intending to wander the gardens this evening, were you?
Without a chaperone?
” She glared at Trousers with serious and violent intent. With all their fascinated witnesses, she’d better hope nothing happened to him that night. No barrister would ever be able to get her off, lightly or otherwise, should he take a tumble in front of a runaway carriage or anything.

Perhaps her glare said all that needed saying. Or at least Trousers backed away, tossing Jessica a rueful glance. Two more steps, and he vanished into the crush.

The little minx’s lips pushed out in a pouting moue. Her ribbons, curling in delicate pink and white spirals near her right ear, bobbed again as she shook herself. “Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn’t do the same if it were Sylvestre Brightenburg on your arm.”

Fidelity rocked back, her heart thudding. Of course she wouldn’t do such a thing… except she’d intended doing precisely that. And worse.

A glint appeared in Jessica’s eyes. The pout gave way to a scowl. “You would, wouldn’t you…
Diana?
”

Fidelity froze. Or perhaps the ballroom froze around her; it was difficult to tell. Shocked to her core, she could only stare at the minx and dream lovely dreams of the polished hardwood floor opening beneath her and sucking her out of the moment. But before she could sort her wistful fantasy from reality, a big, luscious shape loomed in her peripheral vision and a mellow tenor voice spoke.

“Diana, is it?”

Oh,
no
.
For the first time in her life, Fidelity wished for some stronger words.

Brightenburg slid between two potted plants and eased closer. High color flushed his cheeks and the golden flecks in his eyes had darkened with anger. His lip’s curl had tightened, but something that looked remarkably like satisfaction chased the rest of his anger from his face. He leaned over her, far more near than could possibly be countenanced by polite society, and his gentle touch squeezed her elbow.

“Diana, my dear, you
left
the
dance
.”

And if she explained why, she’d ruin Jessica’s reputation, before Jessica had another opportunity to do so for herself.
Think, think; what to say?
Fidelity shot a glare at the willful cause of her current dilemma. She might as well have glared at the moon; Jessica’s eyes resembled innocent blue saucers, fixated on Brightenburg as if pinned there. And if the silly girl didn’t breathe soon, she really would swoon.

With a three-note swirl, the music ended, and scattered applause rippled through the crowd. The first dance, the all-important opening to the ball, was over. Her ten minutes with Sylvestre Brightenburg, which could have led to more as the evening progressed, instead had been squandered chasing down Jessica and doing the job her aunt, the wretched girl’s mother, refused to do. Fidelity gritted her teeth. It was past time to take the chit in hand.