Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

C hristmas Eve 1816

Midnight could not arrive fast enough for Sunshine Price. Perhaps it was adequately called the bewitching hour since she'd felt bewitched by the notion of attending a Christmas masquerade. The idea had been borne in her, set to seed by the faithful women of the Wicked Widows' League.

Now that she was here, and there was no polite way to withdraw, she had naught to do but make the best of a foolish decision. But the question still gnawed at her. What bedeviled-ridden path had her mind wandered down? Some sort of sleep deprivation must be to blame for her folly, else she'd have to blame herself.

Two weeks prior, upon visiting the Wicked Widows' League, the infamous Duchess of Justamere—one of the League's greatest successes—had suggested she attend a Christmas Eve party. Sunshine's instincts shouted flee for your life you silly ninny , but she had been humbled by the duchess's story. How a widowed Fredda St. George fell in love with her would-be solicitor, who happened to be a duke in disguise. And if that were not enough to solidify her deep abiding respect for the Duchess, then the equally humbling story that all her husband's many siblings were bastards gave her a sense of security from a woman who would never judge a simple artist's daughter or steer her wrong.

Sunshine wasn't looking to marry, but if the Duchess of Justamere could turn a nightmare into an adventure, then perhaps there was hope that Sunshine might make a memory worth keeping at the masquerade. It gave her hope.

Besides, the party was planned by two elderly sisters-in-law and was located just outside the city, a fair distance for a little freedom and close enough for a hasty retreat should she need it.

It was time to recover her smile. Happiness breeds happiness, and no good memory can be diluted by having more of the same. Unfortunately, guilt carried a shovel to bury most of the sensible notions of restoration.

She had to admit her life had grown tediously dull, uneventful, lacking hope or courage. Two things she had never been empty of before Richard's death. At some point in the past five years, she or society had become neglectful. During her first year in mourning, few had looked her way, and those who did looked on with pity and voiced concerns for her health. None had emotionally contributed to her future or happiness.

After five years of relative obscurity, it seemed as if she'd been labeled as unidentifiable. The word widow had become her moniker. A horrible reminder that she'd been in the world and was no longer welcome where happiness and the fertility of wellbeing existed. She wasn't quite a pariah. No. She was something worse: a person to avoid as if she had nothing else to offer. What did other widows do? How did they maneuver a bleak landscape without opportunity?

For a while, her favorite people had been the honest ones who simply didn't know what to say. But eventually, even that contact ceased until all she had left were the few servants in her modest home. And, of course, the wonderful women of the Wicked Widows' League. They understood her, the old and the young. That kind of grief does not play favorites.

After spending an afternoon with the Duchess of Justamere, Sunshine had truly thought she could manage a party. After all, it was a masquerade. She could hide. She could avoid people or not. She could be anything she wanted to be. That was the benefit of being undercover. Of course, her natural cynical heart would not allow her to go off into some pitying anonymity, so she had enlisted a dressmaker. It was the first ballgown she'd worn in more than five years. And it was a sight to see, indeed. Burgundy red and wicked as wine, trimmed in lace as wicked as a wedding night.

Sunshine's name alone had generally prompted seamstresses to outfit her in yellow. As a result, she vowed for one night to be seen if not heard. To be reckless if not proper. To be self-absorbed if not convivial.

In other words, Sunshine vowed to make a memory. And for it, she sought out a modiste known for dressing a wealthy man's mistress instead of the diamonds of the first water. At twenty-six, she figured she'd earned it.

Two of Lord Davies's aunts masterminded the entire affair for the express purpose of welcoming their nephew home smack in the middle of the Christmas season. Sunshine had never crossed paths with the viscount, and since she'd not attended a Season in so many years, it was unlikely she'd know anyone at all.

The thought had bolstered her courage, strengthened her reserve, until she ventured from her pink paisley guest room at Willow Manor and descended the stairs one dreaded heart-faltering step at a time.

She practically snuck into the glittering ballroom, avoiding the main entrance pomp by way of the back terrace. Before she came in contact with anyone, she planted herself behind a large potted fern tall enough to hide an ostrich while simultaneously hiding behind her demi mask—thank goodness for small favors. The moment of reckoning called for a moment alone to catch her breath.

Back into society, indeed. What was she thinking? She wanted to run for home. The duchess had insisted this would be the perfect place to find her equilibrium again. Except this was an unequal society, and she no longer belonged if ever she had. Her head spun, watching the carefree, dainty steps of at least three dozen women. All looked to be younger than her.

She closed her red ostrich feather fan and examined her dress for the third time, expecting to see her breasts spilling over on display. The swells dangerously pressed to the edge of her bodice, on the verge of breaching the fine red silk. With her back to the room, she smoothed down the skirt. She hooked her thumbs over the top of her bursting bodice, gave it another tug, and then adjusted her stays with a sharp tweak to help keep everything in place. The silk drape of the magnificent gown left no room for added layers, although she managed one petticoat secretly hemmed with delicate lace. It was one thing to line a gown with lace but another to wear it tucked away, as if it were a part of her that had been in hiding. No one would see it, but it made her feel special, and oddly enough, remembering it gave her courage.

"It's all in place. I assure you," a gravelly male voice that caressed her ears like velvet came from just this side of the fern, effectively startling her pulse like a bolt of lightning.

Liquid fear flooded her veins while she nudged her mask back into place, improving her view. In the meantime, her nostrils fed on the scent of sandalwood like a forgotten memory. She battled the fan hanging from her wrist, trying without much grace to whip the spokes into a demure response. The gentleman calmly circled her wrists with his warm, gloved fingers, steadying the misbehaving fan while he pressed a glass of champagne into her palm. Her fingers instinctively closed around the cool, fluted crystal.

"You look as if you might need it. I know I do," he said, a trickle of humor in his rich voice as he took a sip.

"No doubt you're correct, Mr…" She left off the rest.

He bowed as much as the cramped space allowed. "Mr. Black."

She scrolled a glance, zigzagging over his person because, frankly, the name either fit him or it wasn't real. "Because you're dressed in black? Is your name part of the costume? Or is that your Christian name?"

"I believe it's your turn. We can decide later what's true and whether we should bring the Christians along." He shattered her composure with a half-grin for that clever reply.

Leaving out the truth was sounding better and better by the minute, but she couldn't think fast enough for something more ridiculous than her given name. "Sunshine Price."

He smiled lethally, chuckling with enough charm to send a rumble through her heart. "Oh, that is a good one. Sunshine or Miss Price?"

Price was her husband's name. "Just Sunshine. My good name is not in opposition to my Christian parts, I assure you."

"I see. And which parts would those be, because that dress is as seductive as the devil himself."

Banter was like a machine. It needed but a small amount of grease to run as if it had never been out of service. "What a shame. I had not intended to let my dress wear me. I rather thought I'd wear it this evening."

"Nicely done. Miss Sunshine, you are a breath of fresh air in a room of overstuffed mothers and their chicks."

"It would seem that the poor Lord Davies is on the hook. But I see other roosters here. Would you be one, Mr. Black?"

He licked his lips, his dark eyes contemplating her through his domino, trying to see past her mask and into her soul. "Blackmore." He filled in his name. True or no.

"So, you did lie. I thought so. Your cheek twitched." She tapped the cold rim of her glass to her cheek for emphasis, feeling a wet spark of champagne pop on her eyelash.

"And you must play brag to recognize such a tell. Is that it? We should locate a deck of cards and test it."

She chuckled despite the anxiety that led her to hide behind the fern in the first place. "I'm afraid I don't play the game. My game involves a solitary game of cards."

"Ah, patience." He repeated her favorite form of solitaire. "One deck or two?"

"Two. It's more challenging." For all the improper conversation, this gentleman was easy to converse with. Wearing formal black and a perfectly tied cravat, he made her forget herself. His mask was understated for such an affair—no plumes or pomp about it—simply black and nothing else. Then again, he didn't need anything else. The unruly dark curls of his hair were enough. The length was more than inappropriate, long enough for a queue, but somehow, he made the shoulder-length mane a guise for a trend. Her fingers itched to touch it and find out if it was as decadently silky as it looked.

"Someone needs to teach you whist or brag," he said.

"There was a time I played whist. But for that, we'd need two more players, and if you must know, I am shamefully hiding behind this fern for a reason."

"If we're making confessions already, then I must admit, I was headed this way for much the same reason."

She heard a laugh bubble up from her throat. The sound was achingly familiar, the feelings almost forgotten. "You're a little too tall to make a good go of it, I'm afraid." She took the excuse to gaze over his sinfully styled hair before resting again on his eyes.

He crouched, hunched down several inches into a stooped position. "Is this better?" His eyes sparkled through his thick lashes. A wayward curl slipped from behind his ear.

Sunshine couldn't remember the last time she worked so hard to hold back a grin or a laugh. She tapped the tickling folded spokes of her fan over her unrestrainable smile. "Now, you look as if you need a cane, I'm afraid."

"Behind this mask, I could be a man of sixty, and you'd never know it." He straightened to his full height. At least a head above hers.

"And I could be a chambermaid named Cinderella, who was gifted a fine dress by a cat who turned into a fairy godmother."

Tipping his glass toward her, he raised his brows, then took another sip. "That's too bad of you because now I can't stop thinking of your shoes."

She lifted her hem, pointing her toes with the precision of a ballerina, daintily displaying one ruby red slipper. "No glass. I prefer to think I'm not that fragile." Fear was one thing. Fragility was another. She'd survived a storm, and if she chose to live in the calm of the eye, then she would relish the peace as long as possible because, in her experience, all good things come to an end. It was only a matter of time before she was sucked back into the vortex. Reality rarely let up. It spun all about her, a frenzy of whispering gossip to remind her that she didn't belong.

"Your fairy godmother did you a disservice if you expected to be invisible."

She crooked her lip, grimacing because it was true. "The dress may have been a poor choice but look at the women here." She spread two thick fronds open like Venetian blinds, revealing a ballroom moderately teaming with young women and men and, no doubt, a matchmaker or two. The pale-pink walls were bordered with a polished checkerboard of black and white marble. Mr. Blackmore placed his cheek so close to hers that she felt the heat of his skin and smelled the musk of man and sandalwood, all with the tang of greenery under her nose.

She tapped the air with one pointed finger toward the crowd. "The women, or girls if you will, are dressed in pretty pastels, as if in a painting, with hair in ringlets and smelling of honey-dipped lavender."

"I can't find fault with the honey-dipped lavender part," he said, not taking his eyes from the dancefloor where a quadrille was underway.

"We'll let that inappropriate response go for the moment. But the dresses—there's nothing about them that sets them apart. They're repeated in the same hue if not the same shade."

"They appear as pink, blue, and yellow butterflies floating about the floor, waiting to be netted by an entomologist. The problem with that is the pale butterflies seem to be the ones carrying the nets at this affair. The men would do well to be on guard."

She rolled her head to the side, and he matched her, their noses a mere inch from touching. His eyes almost appeared black under his demi mask, but up close, she could see the circle of coffee brown that surrounded the warmth of rich mahogany. Much like his hair. Dark but streaked with gold threads that winked in the candlelight and disappeared in the shadows. "I applaud your description, Mr. Blackmore."

When she said his name, his gaze dropped to her mouth, where it stayed. "Phineas, Miss Sunshine. I believe we're close enough for Christian names. We're sharing a fern, for God's sake." The invitation was more than just permission to use given names. The weight of it was in his eyes.

For a moment, she thought he might kiss her. Her mouth went dry. It had been five years since she'd kissed a man. Five years since she'd done anything with a man. The thought alone felt as if she'd stuck a finger into the other side of the hurricane and felt the rush of thunderous spasms jolting her heart, charging her veins. She had to remind herself to breathe.

She swallowed. "The butterflies are precisely why I had this dress made for the occasion. More than festive, don't you think?" She blinked away a stare and stood back.

"I think it's wicked, Miss Sunshine. And brilliant. You're not an ordinary butterfly."

"I'm not sure I've ever been a butterfly at all."

"Still a caterpillar?"

The question was pure innuendo, and she knew it. But the game was deliciously daring, and she was wearing a mask in the middle of a party where no one knew her. Where she didn't know herself.

And … she had not kissed a man in five godforsaken years . "Decidedly not a caterpillar, Phineas," she answered without equivocation.

He cocked a brow at the same time he turned away with a forced exhalation, as if he hadn't expected her to answer.

She let out a soulful laugh, more seductive than anything, as she gave him back the empty champagne glass. A fortifying warm haze covered her usual lack of confidence. "More declarations ahead. I confess I don't know a soul here. What about you?"

"Not more than a handful of guests." He held up five fingers, then brought up his other hand and released his index finger. "And only one woman." His brown eyes smoldered, and despite a morbidly cold winter, she felt too warm.

"No silly young unattached girls beckoning you for punch?"

He shook his head, watching her, handsome and forbidden. "Married?"

She shook her head and tried without success not to look at his mouth. "You?" she asked daringly. "Hiding from a shrewish wife, perhaps?"

Smoothing his lips into a broad smile, he shook his head. "Not me."

Was it his eyes behind the mask that captivated her? Was it his untamed hair? Or was it him?

"Don't you think a potted plant is a little cliché?" he asked. "Even the library isn't a proper hiding place these days. More interludes happen there than in the deuced bed chambers upstairs, I've little doubt."

"I suppose I need to rectify that. I've never been one for clichés. Then again, I am guessing you're just trying to shock me, Mr. Blackmore."

"And you digress to my surname because why?"

"Because your casual name is as improper as your remark about the library, and the statement lacks imagination."

"Am I boring you?" His chuckle blundered her every thought. "I'll have to try harder."

"I never said you were boring."

"I see. Then you're afraid of me."

Leaning back, she tilted her head, squinting her eyes like a jeweler with a loupe. "You disappoint me. A man like you, self-assured, to challenge a woman. I don't respond to guilt or chiding. Try again, Phineas."

He bit his lip, looking at the ceiling as if he were calculating the likelihood of her possible invitation. "If I were trying to shock you, I would have suggested a real hiding place. Something more plausible."

"You're doing fine. Keep going." The champagne had a delicious effect.

His intense gaze chased a line from her eyes to her lips to her bosom and back up. But not in an ogling way. He looked more desperate than anything, as if he were afraid of saying the wrong thing, causing her to disappear. He bit his lip. "If we were near the docks, I'd say my ship."

Now, she was shocked. She furrowed her brow. "You have a ship?"

"I captain a ship. I was in the Royal Navy, and after the stack of little wars that led to Waterloo, I couldn't give up the sea."

He was perfect. Gorgeous. Captivating. And the ocean was his home. Should she play or leave? Looking at his broad shoulders, she couldn't keep her coiled fingers from wanting to touch him. She'd been with only one man and not longer than six months. She wanted to taste desire again, but this time without commitment. The ideal opportunity stood in front of her, wantonly tempting her to give herself one night to be anything she wished.

He regarded her quizzically, folding his arm and rubbing his bottom lip. "A rendezvous then? My coach at the end of the drive? Closer than a ship. A tiny bit less cliché than the library."