Chapter 1

An excerpt from Book 3 of the Matchmaker's Ball

Unmask Me, My Love

London

May 1820

Jonathan George Horatio Arturus Black, Marquess of Halford—Hal to his friends—sat in his shirtsleeves, cross-legged on the hard floor of the tiny balcony overlooking Lady Hamilton's ballroom, hand on his chin, gaze resting on the twirling dancers below. He yawned and shook his head, trying to stave off drowsiness. The dancing, the parties, the whole damn Season—which had only just begun—bored him to distraction.

The couples, engaged in a quadrille, flowed back and forth as they met, balanced, circled, and leaped about. All well and good to engage in a spritely dance when one had hopes of a particular young lady. Torture when one had none. He'd looked over this year's crop of damsels, freshly out in Society, and wouldn't have given a farthing for the lot of them, much less made an offer to one. So, of course, this would be the year Father got a bee in his bonnet about him marrying. Didn't he realize eight-and-twenty was the prime age for bachelorhood?

The orchestra paused to change sets. Hal leaned forward, scrutinizing the brightly bedecked figures once more, hoping for a new face in the inevitable crowd. Not one.

Sighing, he shifted his head from his left hand to his right.

"Oh."

The breathy voice made him whirl around. A lovely woman in a fetching white gown stared at him, her brows knitted in a delightful frown.

"Halford, what are you doing up here?" Lady Celinda Grantham, a distant relation of his mother's family, came toward him, her displeasure transforming into a sweet smile. She shook her head, setting her golden ringlets bouncing.

"Hiding. What about you?" He turned completely around to address her. Celinda had always been a favorite "cousin" of his. She could be exceptionally odd at times, which probably explained the attraction. Like would seek like.

"Oh, I didn't particularly want to dance this set," she said, gesturing over the balcony rail. "But neither did I wish to endure the company of Bertie Symmons the entire time." She wrinkled her nose. "I had thought to matchmake him with my cousin, Kate, but she'd probably have my guts for garters."

He cocked his head. "Do I know her?"

"I don't know. She's Miss Locke, Lord Ainsley's sister."

"Hmmm." He had met her two seasons ago and dismissed her as too strong a personality to deal with. Perhaps, given his father's decree, he should reconsider. "I could meet your cousin instead. Do you think she would fancy me?" From what he remembered of her, he wouldn't be bored.

"Huh. She'd have your guts for garters and wear them to the next ball." Celinda laughed and moved closer to the railing, peering down at the ballroom floor. She scanned the room quickly then her attention seemed to focus on one particular set of dancers.

"Who are you watching?" Hal rose to stand beside her. Who was causing that bright pink blush on her cheeks, like a garden in bloom?

"Kate. She's dancing with Lord Finley, who's just now returned from America." Her cheeks deepened to rose. She flipped open her fan and plied it so vigorously her curls flew back from her face. "It is much hotter up here than I expected.'

"Indeed." He gazed at her, seeing her truly for the first time in years. She'd changed since her come-out a year ago. Golden curls, flawless creamy skin, a lively personality, and very kissable coral lips. Why had he never considered her as a candidate for his marchioness? Had the answer to his dilemma been under his nose all along?

"Is that why you're in shirtsleeves?" The color in her cheeks subsided a trifle. "Really, Halford, you are a scandal. You'll be in such trouble if Lady Hamilton finds you thus—or anyone else other than me, for that matter. Put your jacket on, please."

"It doesn't fit." He sighed. Unfortunate, but so true.

"That seems a matter to take up with your valet, or your tailor." She turned once again to stare at the dancers below.

"Perhaps it is better said that I don't fit it, Celinda."

"What do you mean?" She regarded him with a puzzled smile.

"This." He waved his hand at the glittering ballroom. "I'm tired of living by the ton 's rules, dictating what I can and cannot do. Why can I not sit in my shirtsleeves without creating a scandal? It's as if the walls close round me each time I set foot in a ballroom. Neither am I comfortable with all the dancing and flirting—"

"Even though you do it extremely well, from what I've observed." She batted her fan at his arm, her eyelids closing to mere slits, like a cat waiting at a mouse's hole.

"As do you, my lady." He took her hand, so petite in his large one, and gazed into her angelic face. "I wonder if you can save me from another season of balls and parties and the eternal flirting and courting of ladies I have no interest in." A gentle squeeze of her soft skin set his pulse snapping. "I need a sweet, beautiful, intelligent woman like you, cousin, to help me find my way."

"What are you talking about?" She pulled her hand from his, her blue eyes wide and wary. "You are up to something, Halford, as usual. Remember, I have known you since I was in leading strings." She stepped back, fan raised to ward him off.

He laughed. Celinda had never been one to fall for a handsome face or flattering line. "My father has decreed that his heir must produce an heir before he cocks up his toes." Hal backed away from the railing. One never knew how far a voice might travel.

She followed him, still holding the fan en garde . After a fleeting glance at the dancing couples, she turned her attention to him. "Is he ill?"

"Not that he's said. He certainly looks robust enough to achieve his century." Hal wouldn't mind that. His father had always done well by him, and he'd grown rather fond of having him around, except for his latest lunacy. "I suspect it is either a strange whim, born of some chance article in the Times , or else his cronies at his club have been talking about their heirs having been leg-shackled and setting up their nurseries." He shuddered. Marriage might be palatable, but offspring while he was still in his prime didn't sit well at all.

"Can you not simply tell him you haven't found the right woman?" Celinda's sympathetic tone encouraged him.

"Unfortunately, no. He's like a horse with the bit in his teeth. I've been given the ultimatum of finding a bride by the end of the Season, or he will arrange a marriage for me." To even speak the words made his blood run cold. His father was the last person on earth he wanted choosing his wife.

"And you want to marry me?"

He wasn't sure how to take the strained incredulity in her voice. "I think we would suit better than most couples. We've known each other all our lives, as you pointed out. Our families would quite likely declare a national holiday. Or try to."

She giggled at that. So much the better.

"We do get on well. You have to agree. And you take my eccentricities in your stride." He gestured to his shirt and smiled. "That alone makes me want to marry you."

She averted her eyes, her mouth puckering.

Was she about to laugh or cry? He leaned toward her and grasped her hand, determined to press his suit. "Lady Celinda, will you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?"

After one stricken, blue-eyed glance, she burst out laughing. She turned away, and her white-clad shoulders trembled as she got herself under control.

Not the response he'd hoped for, certainly, but he wouldn't let it dampen his spirits. It had been a spur of the moment gamble and would've been a convenient answer to a worrisome problem. He hoped the music masked Celinda's hysterics. It wouldn't do for them to be discovered thus, especially as she'd now rejected him.

"Halford, I'm sorry." She faced him, biting her bottom lip. Her eyes, bright with tears of laughter, also held a trace of sadness. "Truly I am."

"It's quite all right," he said, assuming an injured air. Let her feel guilty, for a moment, at least. "I'm used to ladies laughing in my face when I propose." Actually, he'd never proposed to anyone before, but she couldn't know that.

"Can you forgive me?" She laid her hand on his arm and drew him to a bench set against the balcony wall. "I simply did not expect such a declaration from you, of all people."

"Well, I trust you do not respond so to every man who asks for your hand." He tried to look sternly at her, but it kept wanting to turn into a lopsided grin. Apparently, he couldn't be harsh to Celinda.

"As you have the distinction of being the first man ever to do so, I have to answer yes." She smiled and squeezed his arm. "Halford," she said as they sat, moving a little away from him and withdrawing her hand. "I am not unaware of the great honor you've done me by asking me to be your wife. And I hold you in the highest regard. You are handsome, witty, kind. Everything a woman would want in a husband. However, I need to have a passionate regard for the gentleman I choose to spend my life with, not merely friendship."

"That is the fashion, I understand." Several of his friends who'd married recently had expressed the same sentiment about their wives. "Could passion not grow between us? You are a devilishly attractive woman, Celinda." He gave her his most charming smile and snared her fingers. "You might grow fond of me, and I'm sure I could grow quite fond of you." He lifted her hand and placed an ardent kiss upon it.

"I am certain you would, Lord Halford." She snatched her hand back and rose so abruptly he had to grab the bench to keep from sprawling across it. "I, however, want to know that passion exists before I say yes." She paced the small balcony in short, sharp strides. "I want to love a man so desperately I'd do anything to be able to marry him." Her eyes flashed darkly, and the bright spots of color rose in her cheeks once more.

Hal sighed. Tempting as this avenue to marriage had seemed, it appeared a dead end. "Have you found this great passion then?"

She stopped and cut her eyes toward the railing. "Perhaps." A shake of her head, and she resumed her pacing. "I'm not quite sure. I've thought so before and been disappointed. This time, however, I intend to brook no interference from Papa."

"Parents have that annoying habit, don't they? I wonder if it is part of their sworn duties?" His father seemed to think so.

She grasped his arm, her smile warm again. "I'm sure I will never so impede my children's happiness." Her hand was firm and comforting. "I am truly honored, Halford, that you would make me your marchioness."

He grinned at her and patted her hand. "Call me Hal. My friends do. And since you've turned me down, we're at least that." He inclined his head. One last little temptation. "You'd be my duchess in due time as well, don't forget."

She nodded. "I know. I somehow think I would not be the best duchess."

"You will be the best at whatever you choose to be, cousin." He meant that. Celinda was one of the dearest women of his acquaintance. She would be brilliant no matter if she married a cook or king.

"You are quite the sweetest man." She darted forward and brushed a kiss across his cheek. "A true Roi Charmant . I cannot wait for you to find your princess."

"You mean duchess, don't you?" Either way—princess or duchess—she was right that life with a woman for whom he'd do something desperate would be more than exciting. Like the fairy-tale endings.

"I mean, I want you to find your own true love." Celinda stilled, her head cocked toward the balcony. "The music has stopped. I must go down."

To find her own true love, he'd wager. "Yes, your cousin will be looking for you."

"Kate?" She frowned, the name seeming a puzzle to her, then her eyebrows rose. "Yes, yes, Kate will want to tell me all about Lord Finley's dance." The feverish color had returned to her face. Blushes certainly became Lady Celinda.

"And I suspect you will want to hear every last detail, my lady." He rose and kissed her hand again, not with passion but a great deal of affection. "Go find your prince, Celinda."

With a fleeting squeeze of his hand and a flash of a smile, she ran through the doorway.

Hal smiled, moved back to his spot in front of the balcony rail, and settled on the floor once more. Best steel himself to go down and do his duty by all the young ladies. When had his life become so filled with obligation?

"Ah."

Hal shook his head. "What have you forgott—" He twisted his head toward the doorway and froze.

The young lady who stood before him was definitely not Lady Celinda Grantham. Medium height, with golden brown hair, a face fresh as cream, and perfectly bowed lips, she would've been exceptional even without the startling glass-green eyes. Attired in an unremarkable brown dress, she could not be one of Lady Hamilton's guests, although, with her beauty, she certainly should've been.

"Oh, pardonnez-moi , monsieur ."

What was this woman doing here?

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