Chapter 2
Two
WAYLAND'S, LONDON - JUNE 5, 1816
WILLIAM
It was worse than I had expected. The whole of the ton jammed together in a maelstrom of glittering absurdity.
As soon as we arrived, masks dutifully donned, I found my way up the stairs that wrapped in a spiral around the edge of the gaming floor to the offices upstairs. The crush remained below, utterly unaware of my existence, and I could breathe.
I intended to spend the minimum socially acceptable amount of time at this event. That goal required a stratagem, mapping the battlefield, a plan of attack. Otherwise I could be caught unawares in some tedious conversation with a dimwitted lordling.
From my vantage leaning against the railing above, I surveyed the entire floor. The gaming tables were pushed to the outskirts of the massive hexagonal room. The change made way for a dance floor that had been installed in the center. To one side, an orchestra played sensuous tunes, though the effect was negated somewhat when punctuated by hoofbeats of the gentry as they stomped about.
Wayland and Ainsley—or more likely their wives—had set up a refreshment table, piled high with Mrs. Ainsley's best offerings beside the well-stocked bar lining one wall. If I hadn't made it a practice to visit her shop daily, the sight might have been enough to tempt me into the fray.
The dancers below split into two rows and somehow, in what I was certain was an accident, Her Grace, the Duchess of Rosehill, found herself between two groups. It had been years since I last saw her, but she was unmistakable.
She had taken advantage of the theme to pull something ostentatious from her closet. A gown from her youth that had presumably been gathering dust in the back of her wardrobe now spilled out from her hips. The dress was nearly as wide as she was tall, with gold ruffles puckering across the cornflower blue silk. The massive wig atop her head wiggled when the dance called the partners back together.
How a woman that frivolous managed to secure a husband as sensible as the late Duke of Rosehill was still a wonder. The thought caused a familiar pang of guilt at the reminder of that loss. His Grace hadn't been pleased when I abandoned the law for the army. He'd withdrawn his support, emotional and financial. We were estranged for years before he passed, but I respected him. Rosehill was sensible—sensible and stubborn.
Kit began the climb up the steps, a glass in each hand. One containing a whiskey he favored, and the other a lemonade for me, if I had to guess. I didn't drink as a rule, and as tempting as it might be to begin tonight, I didn't intend to start now.
He handed me the lemonade, which was shockingly refreshing instead of cloyingly sweet. He took a sip from his own glass before leaning against the railing beside me.
"Did no one tell her it's the male peacocks that have the fancy feathers?" Kit asked, gesturing with his glass toward a lady covered in peacock feathers at one of the high-stakes tables farther into the room.
Lady Davina—Kit would find her. He always grumbled loudly when her brother arrived, requesting a rescue for her. The girl was determined to see herself ruined or dead in her quest for an adventure.
"She looks nonsensical," he added, fooling only himself. Kit might complain, but it was plain from the flush of his cheeks that he was fond of her.
I did have to agree with his assessment, though. She wore a turquoise gown with shorter feathers peeking above one shoulder. They trailed across her front before angling along to her opposite hip where full-length feathers angled away. There was an embroidered peacock across the bodice connecting the two plumes of feathers. Her mask was simpler, a few feathers cut short curled up on one side.
Compared to nearly every lady here, the dress was overdone and fussy. Compared to her mother, the Duchess of Rosehill… She may as well have been wearing a sensible cotton day dress and a matronly cap.
"How did I know I would find the two of you up here?" A familiar dark head called from down the hall. The pale-blue domino did little to hide his identity. That choice was almost certainly intentional.
Michael Wayland joined Kit and me at the railing, surveying his kingdom. Though he had abdicated the day-to-day running of the club a few years prior when he married, it still bore his mark in every way that mattered. And retirement hadn't made him a jot less rich.
A commotion arose at one of the high-stakes hazard tables, a few groans punctuated by the perfunctory claps of those who lost. A few feminine giggles carried over.
A lady had won a hefty sum, her dark curls bouncing with delight. Unlike some of the other ladies, she was not costumed, merely masked. She glanced about, searching for someone, before tipping her head up. Her eyes found Wayland's and she grinned—his wife.
In response, he tilted his drink, toasting her success. "Jules wouldn't let me play for coin tonight. Said it wouldn't be sporting. She'll probably take them for the lot and they'll thank her for the pleasure." A proud smile slipped over his face. He shook off the adoring admiration when his wife returned her attention to the table.
"You're not playing?" he asked, turning to lean his back against the rail.
"Will has no vices, you know that," Kit retorted.
"And you? You've got coin now."
"I'm not about to lose it all to your wife." Kit took a sip. "Or worse, my sister. Where is Kate anyway?"
"She probably snuck off to a closet with my brother." Wayland posited, taking a hearty sip of his own drink.
"Why would you say that?" Kit groaned.
"At least you've never found them in one." Wayland gave an exaggerated shudder.
"I thought we were here on your sister's orders." I reminded Kit. "If she is otherwise occupied with her husband, we can be off."
No sooner had I made the argument than one of the doors behind us opened and out popped the aforementioned Lord and Lady Grayson, slightly mussed and giggling like children.
Like her sister-in-law, Lady Grayson had forgone a costume in favor of a deep-red gown. In her hand was a gold mask with a rose and some other baubles attached to the side. Her husband had dressed to match in a red-and-gold brocade waistcoat.
"Damn," I muttered.
"Oh, Kit! What are you doing up here?" His sister questioned, smoothing a curl back into her coiffure.
"Needed air."
"You're an abysmal liar. Come, I have a lady I wish you to dance with." She grabbed his wrist and dragged him, still protesting, down the steps to the main floor.
"Does he know how to dance?" Lord Grayson asked, seemingly to himself.
I shrugged in response. He'd taken a few lessons at his sister's behest. Not enough to prevent his inevitable humiliation.
Grayson grinned as he leaned over the railing to watch his wife tow her brother about, pausing occasionally to rise on tiptoes to attempt to see over the crowd. Neither of the siblings were tall enough for that endeavor to be successful, but the attempt was amusing.
"How long before she has him wedded and bedded?" Wayland questioned his brother.
"Well, in spite of her desperate desire for a cousin for Henry to play with, she's a romantic. She'll spend years parading him around every lady of her acquaintance until he falls in love with one out of sheer desperation to end her matchmaking."
"Might have news on that front," Wayland answered. His tone was tentative, low.
"He's in love with someone?" Lord Grayson was not the brightest man I had ever met.
"Yes, obviously I know where your brother-in-law's romantic inclinations lie."
"Oh… Oh! But?"
"She hasn't told me yet."
I didn't often wish for something stronger than lemonade. Presented with the choice of continuing to stand idly beside what was clearly a private conversation and the option of facing the masses below, either would be more bearable with something alcoholic.
Determined to find a way out of this situation, I surveyed the crowd. Perhaps I should offer Kit a rescue. Lady Grayson was now determinedly dragging her brother to every eligible young lady, save the one I suspected he would have been pleased with. He was making a valiant effort to frown them away and it appeared to work on the less determined ones. But what was a frown compared to a title and fortune? Nothing, if the bosomy one in the golden poof of a dress before him was any indication.
In France, I had never left a man behind. The war would have been much shorter if it had been waged on the dance floor. I was more than prepared to abandon my friend to his fate. After all, I had been noted by one of our hosts. Surely I could retreat from the field without repercussions.
Using my vantage to scout for an exit, my eyes brushed across her petite form with disinterest. Just for a moment. Just for the single second it took for my head to catch up to my heart, to recognize the interested, heavy thump the organ gave.
I needed only a single breath to reorient to true north.
I was halfway down the steps before I realized I had moved. She had already found her place on the dance floor by the time I made it to the floor and the crowds parted. A little thing, she reached just to her partner's shoulders—though he was overly tall. She was lithe, graceful in her movements. Her smile was bright, teasing and overly familiar. Perhaps a brother? A husband? My stomach gave an instinctive wrench at that thought.
Her hair was pulled back from her face to twist down her neck like spun gold. It was not an entirely appropriate style and the sight of the loose waves felt… intimate. Her skin—a not insignificant amount on display—was a light golden shade, tanned, perhaps. My mind conjured a brief flash of her, head tipped back and eyes closed, allowing the sun to worship her. Her loose champagne waves would flow down her back, free as they brushed her shoulders in the breeze.
A laugh burst from her, throaty and sensual. What would that voice sound like, pressed against my ear, whispering the words of her pleasure?
My gaze was predatory, I knew that. But I could not have torn my eyes away for the world. My circuit around the dance floor was more of a prowl than a walk. The air was thinner now that I was closer to her, in her orbit. But not close enough.
I could not make out her eyes, not from behind her mask. It was a flimsy, lacy thing. What other flimsy, lacy things was she wearing?
Her gown was fine, finer than anything I'd ever worn, touched, seen. A mauve gauzy material overlay plum silk. It offset the golden kiss of her skin. All across the gown were tiny embroidered iridescent butterflies and flowers. Delicate little decorations to entice. Some had beads to catch the light and draw the eye. Others were textured in some mysterious way that ladies were taught to achieve and lords were taught to feign appreciation for. They were denser at the hem and up the center of the gown, growing sparser at her sides and bodice. She had no need for adornment there, nothing need distract from her face. She was shining, resplendent.
Another step, closer still, I could see a delicate metalwork butterfly on her mask as well. At last, her eyes slipped from her partner's to catch mine. They were a greenish color in the candlelight and framed by lashes a shade darker than her hair. They widened briefly with something I could not name. Interest? Alarm? Lust?
As quickly as it arrived, the expression was shuttered away, leaving behind a self-satisfied smile. She turned back to her partner.
Dismissed.
I was well used to being disregarded by the ton . This one stung, perhaps a bit more than usual, but it was nothing I could not manage. It served as a stark reminder of what she was; a pretty jewel, shiny and useless. Just like all the rest. If she shone a bit brighter, well, that was all the more dangerous. I was all too familiar with beautiful baubles. And I was not in a hurry to repeat the experience.
Freed from her entrancing presence, I searched the crowded floor for an escape. My past visits were confined to Wayland's or Ainsley's office. My comings and goings were always through the main entrance. Surely there was a back door though.
I stepped back, nearly tripping into an oversized skirt. Clearly some of these ladies had missed the panniers and hip pads because they'd made full use of them at the slightest of opportunities. I would have thought the slimmer silhouette currently in fashion would be more comfortable.
Finally, a few of them parted and I caught sight of a pair of French doors. Presumably—hopefully—they led outside.
After wrenching the doors open, I found myself on a lonely, rain-dampened stone balcony. Trapped. Trapped but at least free from the cacophony inside. And the mocking verdant eyes.
It was an uncharacteristically unkempt area of the club. Ainsley was nothing if not fastidious. But vines and flowering weeds had wound their way between and beneath the cobblestones, reclaiming the balcony for nature. In front of me was a stone balustrade overlooking an overgrown garden a few feet below. It was a more than acceptable perch for my elbows while I nursed my wounded pride.
As I contemplated the garden, weariness settled into my bones. Lord, I was tired. For a moment, I had felt like a young man again. The same giddy infatuation I'd felt the first time I saw Adriane had consumed me .
Now though, I remembered the aftermath, and I felt every one of my six and thirty years in my bones. I was a man grown. There was no reason to compose sonnets to every fancy bit of muslin I came across.
Now that I had looked away—blinked—I could see. She—the lady—wasn't nearly as breathtaking as my impulsive heart had insisted. She was short, with a slightly pushed-up nose. Her effect was a trick of the light, an illusion of fabric and thread and hairpins. She was nothing special.
None of them were anything special.
Behind me the raucous sounds of the gaming hell rose and fell with the door opening and closing. I made no effort to turn, hoping the intruder would reevaluate their choice of location.
The even-paced tap of shoes on the stones, the drag of a gown, assured me that the evening's luck remained precisely as unfortunate as it had been a few moments before.
The intruder stopped just a few feet behind me. She swallowed audibly and still I did not turn.
"You know, when a lady smiles at you, it is an invitation to ask for a set, not to run away."