Chapter 3

Three

WAYLAND'S, LONDON - JUNE 5, 1816

CELINE

The drawing room of Hasket House was redecorated annually. It also looked precisely as it had the first time I laid eyes on it more than a decade ago. The extravagant furnishings had changed, but the sharp angles and stark colors remained. My late husband's mother knew what she liked.

"Sit down, Xander. If you pace any more you'll wear out the carpets," Davina demanded. My sister-in-law loved to needle her elder brother, and it was never an easier task than before a ball.

"Technically, they're my carpets, Dav," he grumbled, reaching a hand to run it through his perfectly styled hair. He remembered himself inches from the coiffure and pulled his hand away. Behind his back, his sister let a frown slip.

"Do you suppose they'll play hazard tonight? I find myself in need of funds."

Xander's pacing ceased for a moment as he turned to stare incredulously at his sister. "Davina, you cannot—you must behave with decorum tonight. And these people will be playing for real coin. And what could you possibly need funds for? Your pin money is more than generous."

"What on earth else would they play for? And it is hardly your business." She crossed her arms petulantly over her chest, mussing the peacock feathers billowing from the embroidered bird across her bodice.

"Davina—" Xander's tone had jumped an octave, the way it always did when he had reached the end of his patience.

"Davina, darling, perhaps you might go see if your mother is in need of assistance?" She rolled her eyes at my suggestion but shoved herself off the settee without complaint.

In her absence, Xander collapsed across from me, head tipped back to stare at the ceiling. He took after his mother when it came to fabric selections, his black waistcoat, shirt, and cravat standing in contrast to the white damask of the settee.

"What has a bee in your bonnet?"

His head rolled to the side so he could eye me warily. "We're taking my mother and my sister to a gaming hell. To a masquerade, no less. Mother will certainly expose herself to ridicule, and Davina to ruin—and I shall be left with nothing but the scattered pieces of my dignity."

"Surely it will not be so bad as all that."

Xander shifted to sit up properly, though his posture remained relaxed. "You have, in fact, met my mother and sister, yes? Gabriel always made it a point to arrive far later than fashionable, merely so he would miss Mother's grand entrances. And that was before Davina was in society." He wasn't wrong about Gabriel, though that was hardly the only reason for his perpetual tardiness.

"It's a masquerade; a certain amount of pageantry is to be expected."

"Remember that sentiment when you see her," he retorted ominously.

"I've been warned. Is something else wrong? You seem…"

"Agitated?" he supplied.

"I was searching for a more tactful choice, but yes.

"I ran into Parker and Beaumont—at the club."

"Always an unpleasant state of affairs."

"There were some… insinuations bandied about." Xander's hands always danced in front of him when he spoke. But they were pinched and agitated now, held tight against his form.

"What did they say?"

"Nothing fit for a lady's ears."

"I was married to your brother. I've heard a great many things not fit for a lady's ears."

He sighed, looking at the floor. "There was an implication that I would be better able to secure a wife if I feasted on a lady's... flower the way I feast on a man's… well, you know. Then there was the generous offer to demonstrate the proper technique on Davina."

I could not have contained my gasp for the world. "Which one?"

"Does it matter? They may be the only ones brave enough to voice it, but they all think it."

"Of course it matters. At the very least, I shall spread some unflattering rumor. Perhaps something about pustules on the member."

That, at least, earned me a chuckle. "It was Beaumont. But you needn't spare Parker. He was too busy informing every man there that Lady Charlotte James is in too delicate a condition to bother with me."

"But the baron passed several months ago."

"Precisely. Parker insists that the babe is not his," he added, leaning in. Nothing was so diverting as truly scandalous gossip.

"Who else would have her? She is a shrew."

"Some might say the same of you." His lips twisted to one side in the familiar facsimile of a smile that was so unique to Xander.

"I may not be nice, but neither am I cruel. And why must you always defend her? It is one of my greatest reliefs that you did not wed her."

"She is—her life is not what it seems."

"I haven't the slightest idea what you mean by that."

Before he could explain, Davina slipped back into the drawing room pressing back against the wall. When my gaze returned to the doorway, I understood her desire for a wide berth. Her mother followed her into the drawing room. Or, rather, she attempted to follow her daughter into the drawing room.

It was difficult to say which was more impressive, the circumference of the skirts or the height of the wig. Despite both the wide entrance and high ceilings of the room, the skirts caught against the doorframe. Clementia backed up and turned side face to sidle into the room. As she did, the wig caught against a—fortunately unlit—chandelier.

Clearly having expected this inevitability, Xander rose with a sigh to extricate her. Davina leaned against the far wall, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Once freed from her candelabra prison, I offered the duchess the sincerest compliment I could muster, which was that her ensemble would be the talk of the evening. Clementia may have taken the compliment with sincerity, but one look at Xander and Davina confirmed that they perfectly understood my meaning.

A few more strategic complements had us out the door, masks in hand, and to the carriage only for all of us to simultaneously recognize the necessity of a second.

Eventually our party split, Davina and me in one, and Xander and his mother in the other. We were on our way and only three-quarters of an hour later than originally intended.

Much as I hadn't particularly wanted to attend tonight, I was enjoying myself.

That had often been the case since Gabriel left me. I never wanted to put forth the effort to ready myself for society. The thought of stomaching the peculiarities and absurdities of the ton was exhausting. But I was a social creature by nature.

The beau monde was out in full force tonight. Gentle ladies were delighted to see inside the notorious gaming hell where their husbands made and lost fortunes.

No explicit rule prevented ladies from attending. But it simply wasn't done. Oh, the occasional widow like myself, and more frequently women in the profession made an appearance, but tonight was something different.

The excitement was palpable and the ensembles more than rose to the occasion. The hostesses, Lady Juliet? * and Mrs. Ainsley, had done a lovely job turning the club into a ballroom. Somehow they had managed to make it appear as the room's intended purpose instead of debauchery.

The tables ringed the room, with a dance floor placed in the center. A side table served as home to numerous delicacies, courtesy of Mrs. Ainsley. Tarts, pies, and fairy cakes towered atop it, each more delectable than the last.

I dipped that way, hoping to nab one of the cheese tarts before they were all gone. Finding my preferred treat among the other delicacies proved to be a greater challenge than I'd anticipated. I was inspecting the selection when a warm form appeared at my side, holding a glass out for me.

I turned to meet familiar dark eyes and a crooked grin. "Celine," Micheal whispered in a honeyed tone, a pale-blue domino doing little to conceal his identity. "Good of you to come."

"Michael Wayland hosting a ball. I would have thought the sun would cease to rise first. I would not have missed this." I took a sip from the proffered drink, finding my favorite scotch. I didn't often choose such masculine indulgences, but when in Rome.

" Host is a strong word. Acceding to my wife's demands might be a more apt description." He shifted on his heels at the mention of his wife, a proud sort of maneuver.

"As you should. She has made only improvements."

"I will tell her you said as much." He turned his gaze on the feast beside us, pointing at a tart. "Those are the cheese ones. I assume you still favor them?"

I snagged the referenced tart and bit into the delicate pastry filled with warm, rich, buttery brie and groaned.

Michael chuckled beside me. "In two years, I don't believe I ever managed to drag such a sound from you."

"It does not speak well to your skills in the boudoir, does it?"

"Or does it speak quite well of the tart?" he countered.

"Perhaps both."

He shrugged before selecting a different tart, devouring it in three short bites. Dark eyes flitted back to mine. "Have you made your way to the tables? I'm certain if you merely flutter your eyelashes, you could bankrupt half the men here."

"Only half? I must be losing my touch."

"My wife is bankrupting the other half at present." His gaze flitted toward one of the higher stakes tables where a young woman draped in embroidered blue silk that matched his mask confidently rolled the dice with a graceful flourish. Her dark curls were gathered elegantly at the nape of her neck. Lady Juliet Wayland.

When I turned back to Michael, his expression could only be termed one of awe. Besotted suited him. Love for his wife had smoothed some of the sharper edges he wore during our time together.

"You've taught her well."

"She is… remarkable." His tone was wistful, and his gaze hadn't once left her statuesque form.

"I am pleased for you."

He turned back to me. "I never thanked you. For encouraging me her way."

"One encounter and you were smitten. Anyone with eyes could see you were hers."

"Yes, well…" He dragged a hand through messy waves, his gaze flicking to the side before meeting mine. "I am still grateful. I know we are not… close, the way we used to be. But we were friends of a sort. I like to think we are still."

"Of course."

"Excellent. Then you will take it in the spirit intended when I draw your attention to your mother-in-law and leave you to disentangle her from the railing." He gestured to the staircase wrapping the room where Her Grace's wig was caught in the banister.

" Merde ," I muttered. "I lied. We are friends no longer."

"A tragedy I shall be forced to bear," he retorted, backing away up the stairs, studiously avoiding eye contact with the duchess.

I found my way to her side with a barely suppressed sigh. "May I be of some assistance, Your Grace?"

"I am unsure, darling. Are you able to reach?"

It was a fair question; she was a full hand taller than me without the wig. With it… Fortunately, she was trapped in the stairs and not the chandelier again. I climbed the steps, refusing to acknowledge curious gazes while I unhooked her.

Once freed, I began the laborious process of guiding her to the ladies' retiring room, ignoring the snickers that followed.

I left my mother-in-law in the hands of a haggard ladies' maid and returned to the ballroom before I could be expected to unhook her from anything else. The wall was particularly appealing in that moment. I was not a wallflower by any definition, but even I could only manage so much shame without reprieve.

Couples had found their way to the makeshift dance floor, laughing through the ends of a lively jig. That had never been my preferred dance, but the sight pulled a smile to my lips.

Movement beside me drew my attention. An unbearably tall blond man had sidled up to me in silence.

"If I remember correctly, a woman as graceful as you belongs on the dance floor. Not along the wall." His mask, black with gold detailing, covered the entire right side of his face as he peered down at me. The other half was bare and familiar.

"Lord Champaign, it has been an age!"

"Best part of a decade. We last spoke on the eve of your engagement, I believe. I am sorry for your loss."

The memory of that night, the night I made Gabriel mine, always left a confusing swirl of lust, love, and sorrow in my heart.

But he was right. I had not seen Lord Champaign after that night on the terrace where he caught me in Gabriel's arms.

"I heard you suffered a similar loss. I am sorry for you as well."

I could not recall his late wife's name. But, if memory served, she died around the same time Gabriel had. I was far too lost to my own grief to send appropriate condolences at the time, and I regretted it now.

"Thank you. Would you care for a dance?"

"I would be delighted." He swept me in his arms, every bit as strong and graceful as he had been when we first danced a lifetime ago.

"You seem to have misplaced your accent," he commented.

"Just for tonight. I think it adds to the mystery."

"Oh yes, I'm certain there are two, perhaps three people in this room who do not know you on sight. Even in the mask."

"Four at least. Do give me credit."

"I'll be generous and give you a half dozen. How have you been?"

That was a question. I went to dances, parties, luncheons, and concerts. I read and practiced with my sword. I chaperoned Davina. I played cards with Mama and our friend Marie.

And several times a week I sat against a cold headstone and spoke to my dead husband.

"It wasn't meant to be a trick," he added, his fingers tightening gently on my waist. There was nothing sensual about it. It was merely a comfort offered from a widower to a widow.

"No, I know. I just wasn't… I wasn't sure which answer you wanted."

"Whichever one you want to give me is more than fine."

I sighed, parsing out an answer somewhere in the vicinity of the truth. "I am well enough. Most days, I am all right. Some days I'm fine, marvelous even. Other days…" I cannot breathe. "Well, you know…"

"I do."

"And you?"

"The same. More or less. Mia—Amelia—and I, we were good together."

"I cannot imagine you being anything else. I should have told you—I always meant to tell you—it was never about you that night. I— Gabriel was… all-consuming. You were— are —a wonderful man. I never doubted that you would make a good husband. It was just…"

"I never thought that, but I appreciate it all the same," he assured me.

As Lord Champaign and I slowly turned on the floor, my eyes met a sharp blue gaze across the room—cobalt, royal, azure, sapphire, the bluest of blue eyes.

They were half hidden behind a black scrap of fabric knotted behind the man's head in a lazy facsimile of a mask.

His expression was one of interest. Or perhaps something more intense. It was a headier gaze than those I was used to receiving from men. Ice spread through my veins, cool and drugging. I offered him an enticing smile, hoping to summon him to my side.

In the days before Gabriel, I'd made a game of that. Drawing men to me only to dismiss them moments later when they became tedious.

Instead of crossing the floor at my invitation, rather than grabbing me in his arms and whisking me into a waltz, he scowled.

A man scowled at me.

My eyes trailed him from my position on the dance floor. He stalked around the hell. The man wasn't overly tall, perhaps a hand taller than me, but no more. He was compactly muscled and his movements were confident, purposeful, and irritated. I followed him all the way out to the balcony before he closed the French doors behind him. Shutting me out.

As the last strains of the song drew to a close, I turned my gaze back to the man who held me in his arms. There was something amused in the way he held the corner of his mouth.

"Enjoy yourself tonight, Lady Rycliffe. I think it's time for both of us to live a little," Lord Champaign dipped his head respectfully.

"Thank you," I whispered as he backed away, disappearing into the shadows. Spinning on my heels, I strode toward the French doors the gentleman had slipped through.

I slipped out before pressing the door closed behind me. When I turned to face him, his back was toward me as he leaned against the rail of the balcony overlooking the garden. The muscles of his shoulders coiled tighter, rising as I took first one step, then another onto the balcony.

I paused just a few feet behind him. My mouth suddenly dry, I swallowed harshly.

"You know, when a lady smiles at you, it is an invitation to ask for a set, not to run away."

He spun slowly on his heel, wrapped in shadows and moonlight.

Oh my.

* ? As an earl's daughter, Juliet retains her title even after her marriage to a commoner. She can be Lady Juliet or Lady Juliet Wayland. She cannot be Lady Wayland because that implies her husband is Lord Wayland, which Michael is not.