28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

T hough she was a consummate consumer of romances (more so than she would ever admit, especially to her sisters), Florence did not have a speck of experience with the real thing. Still, even with her noted lack of expertise, she knew a spark when she saw it. For weeks, she had harboured a suspicion that something was afoot—all of the sisters did—and the strange tension in the carriage tonight had done nothing to abate that feeling.

Florence watched as all eyes turned to Beatrice when her cloak fell away. There was a fleeting instant of jealousy, not because Florence begrudged Beatrice her moment of beauty, but because Florence was eager for a time when her own feminine charms might evoke such a reaction. She was not wholly displeased by being overshadowed, though, as this gave her a moment to observe...and what she saw made her heart hopeful.

Her father, her stoic, unreadable father, could not take his eyes from Beatrice either. Florence could not help but feel a little smug as she saw this, for it confirmed her own theory that there was a light between her governess and her father. It was too romantic, really, as they would not be accepted by society.

It seemed, however, that both had permitted the anonymous air of the masque to give them a layer of protection and permission. With bated breath, Florence watched as her father held out his hand to Beatrice. The gesture was simple enough, but it clearly meant more than that to both of them.

Florence stopped breathing entirely for a moment as Beatrice lifted her hand, then drew it back, like a cat cautiously testing its footing.

Go on , Florence silently willed Beatrice.

When at last Beatrice placed her hand into her father's, Florence could not help but smile widely. The sight gladdened her, not just because it was romantic, but also because it gave her a feeling of security. She hated to intrude on what felt like a private moment, despite the public setting, and hung back for as long as she could.

From where she stood, she spotted a person who could only be Miss Fitzroy standing with another collection of girls. Florence darted a glance at her father and Miss Heart, and decided to slink off on her own. It wasn't as if she was really breaking any rules—she would still be escorted, and really, what trouble could she get into with her friends around her?

"Why, could that be Miss Hillmot in that beautiful frock?" Miss Constable said from behind a blue satin mask. She was dressed like the night sky, her gown cut daringly low on her shoulders to show off her white skin and dark hair.

"Hush, Eugenie!" Miss Winthrop said, hitting Miss Constable with her folded fan. "You know the point of the night is not to know anyone!"

"And yet, we've all managed to find one another, haven't we?" Miss Constable replied dryly.

"Surely it's a sign of what good friends we are," Miss Fitzroy said soothingly. "We all would know each other anywhere, wouldn't we?"

"Well," Miss Winthrop said, "I don't intend to stand around all night; let's go take a turn about the ballroom."

With that, all the girls linked arms or held hands with one another, setting off in a flock of giggling, rustling gowns, and whispers exchanged behind gloved hands. On their circuit, in which the point was to largely see and be seen, it was decided that the food was exemplary, the gowns sumptuous, and the male specimens of the species suitably handsome.

"Now, we only must get them to dance with us," Miss Constable said, tossing her head alluringly at a gaggle of young bucks all standing together.

"Wait, how will that work, precisely?" Florence asked. "There are no dance cards, so how will we take down their names?"

"There aren't any dance cards at a masque , silly," Miss Constable answered as if it were patently obvious. "The whole fun of the evening is not knowing who you are dancing with. Besides," she said, lowering her voice and ducking her head closer to the other girls, "that way your father will never find out if you dance with someone unsuitable, but with a handsome pair of legs."

They all giggled at that, Florence feeling a little scandalised, but thrilled at such independence. She scanned the crowd, hoping to find a dashing young gent who might wish to squire her out onto the dance floor. As she did so, she realised that one man, dressed sharply in black satin breeches and a black coat, was staring openly at her.

Florence, blushing, as she was thoroughly unused to such attention, ducked her head, avoiding his eyes as she ought to. She could not keep herself from peeking back at him, however, and found that he had not wavered.

"Ooh, Florence, I believe you have an admirer," Miss Fitzroy whispered, clutching Florence's wrist, who blushed and tried to shush her friend.

It quickly seemed that Miss Fitzroy was correct, however, for the man in black approached the gaggle of young ladies. Miss Constable sized him up, but he had eyes only for Florence, light grey eyes that stared out from his mask. Though his face was covered, the mask was cut in such a way as to imply a sharp raven's beak that tapered up to equally sharp cheekbones. Florence, delighted that she had gotten her first male attention ever , fancied that his face was equally chiselled beneath the mask.

"Well, well," he said, his voice practically a purr. "I do not believe I have ever met you before—I would surely remember it."

***

H owever besotted Gregory was, he was not ignorant of the fact that Florence had made good her escape the moment she perceived that he was distracted. This was a cause for some alarm, and he was intent on searching her out that minute, but Miss Heart waylaid him with a hand on his arm.

"She's fine," she said lowly. "I saw her head off in the company of her friends. They will all watch out for one another."

"You are so certain of that?" Gregory demanded, staring at Beatrice, who only laughed.

"Do you remember what it was like to be a young man? Would you approach such a gaggle of girls at a ball, when they are all grouped up together like that?" she asked pragmatically.

Gregory opened his mouth to respond, thought for a moment, then grunted an agreement. Miss Heart had a point, and he doubted that young men had gotten that bold of late, not at a country ball where, despite the masks, nearly everyone was known to someone.

"In that case," he said, putting his hand on top of hers that rested on his arm, "what say you to a glass of champagne?"

"Champagne?" Miss Heart repeated, and he could practically see her wry expression from behind her mask. "Sir, that is completely inappropriate for a governess acting as a chaperone at a ball. I am surprised a colonel known for his propriety would suggest such a thing." Nevertheless, she tightened her grip on his elbow, arranging herself by his side.

Gregory found that he quite liked the sensation of her next to him, on his arm, it being the most natural thing in the world. "Ah, but that is where you are mistaken," he tutted, "for I am clearly not a colonel, but a highwayman with no regard at all for the rules of polite society."

Beatrice laughed, a rich, honey-toned sound, throwing her head back and playfully swatting him on the arm. "Well, then by all means, lead the way."

Champagne successfully retrieved, they continued to circulate slowly around the perimeter of the various rooms in companionable silence. As they came upon the ballroom, Gregory, looking aside at Beatrice, noticed that she was watching the couples longingly.

"So, you are fond of dancing, then?" he asked.

To his surprise, Beatrice responded a little sadly, "Yes, I am, more than nearly anything else in the world. Though I suppose I shan't be afforded many opportunities for it now," she added.

"I've never really seen the point in it, myself," Gregory remarked, gesturing with a jerk of his chin to the dancers. "It seems a strange way for couples to get to know one another."

"Mm, no," Beatrice replied. "See, it's about collaboration, cooperation, working together; these are all desirable traits in a spouse, yes? And besides, social dancing like this—" She paused, raising her champagne glass in the direction of the dance floor. "—is somewhat limited in scope, I will grant you, but a true artist on the stage? Then, the dancing is about expressing feelings and ideas too large for words."

Gregory stared at her openly, having never heard her speak so impassioned about anything before. The mystery that was Beatrice only deepened.

"I cannot work you out," he said, and her eyes flicked up to him. "You are either an impoverished noblewoman, an actress, or maybe a lost princess," he said, "and I honestly do not know which."

"You forgot pirate," she replied, her lips curling up in a cat-like smile below her mask. "I am awfully fond of treasure."

"Never met a woman who wasn't," Gregory muttered.

Beatrice's eyes cut to Gregory. "Ah yes, men wish us to be ornamented creatures on their arms, then begrudge us the ornaments."

"No, that's not what I—confound it, how do you do that?" he demanded.

"Do what, precisely?"

" That ," he responded. "You get inside my head, you're always there, challenging me, making me wonder if you will approve of what I'm doing. It's maddening!"

"Well, if it's any comfort, you're not the first man that's called me maddening," Beatrice replied, her smile turning coy, her eyes warm and soft.

Gregory, feeling greatly daring, more than he had since returning home from the battlefield, reached out with one hand and put it on her waist. To his satisfaction, it fitted most naturally. "I find you positively infuriating , in the most beguiling way," he said, pulling her a little closer. They were standing quite near each other now, locked into a world of their own in the corner of the room. "You make my heart race such that I don't wonder that you can hear it."

The smile fell slowly from Beatrice's face. Some silent war was waged for a moment behind her eyes, and then, Gregory could not believe it, she reached up with one red-gloved hand and placed it over his heart. Without breaking her gaze, he placed his hand over hers.

With a magnetism that bordered on hypnotic, Gregory stared into her green eyes, shining out like jade from her mask, and ducked his head, closer and closer to hers. He was slow, tentative, never taking his eyes from her as he leaned in. She did not balk or turn away, even tilting her head back a little to meet him.

They were so close that he could feel her breath on his face, her lips were parted, and—

Abruptly, Beatrice was jostled from the back, stumbling into Gregory. He caught her automatically, shooting daggers at the intruders. It was a cluster of girls, all balancing glasses of lemonade.

"Whoops," one said, clearly seeing that they had interrupted something. "Do forgive us," she added, laughing, and the others trailed after her, giggling the whole while in a cloud of feathers and satin.

Gregory looked down to Beatrice, hoping to ascertain if she was alright, but her eyes were fixed on the girls that had just left. Her body was stiff, and Gregory immediately stepped back, his eyes narrowing in concern.

"What is it?" he asked.

"That was Miss Constable and her set," Beatrice said. She turned back to Gregory, her eyes wide and worried. "Florence was not with them."