Chapter Five

Behind his guise of a falcon, Malcom feared he might pass out from the feeling of suffocation threatening to overwhelm him. The wretched mask was driving him half mad, even if it allowed him to navigate the tumultuous social sea of the ball surrounding him anonymously.

He was standing at the fringes of the throng, a brandy in his hand, glad to take a break from the enforced dancing. He bitterly resented being forced into participating.

"Now, Malcom, I expect you to do your duty and dance with as many young ladies as you can. Remember, this ball is in your parents' honour," Madeleine had told him on arrival.

"How can I forget, Madeleine, when you keep reminding me?" he had replied with sarcasm, dreading the evening ahead. He told himself that Madeleine could not understand how the whole thing reminded him of his terrible loss, and the gnawing guilt he still felt over it. Madeleine had no idea what a sacrifice he was making out of respect for her and his poor parents.

Just being at the ball felt like torture, and worse still was having to endure the featherbrained young women he was forced to dance with. In contrast, Terrence had gaily thrown himself into the proceedings and was even then spinning a young lady disguised as a rabbit around the floor. Malcom sipped his drink and scowled, his impatience mounting at the useless charade of an evening.

I have to get out of here and get some fresh air. I need to breathe!

Just as he turned and made for the exit to the terrace, a portly gentleman bumped into him, sloshing pungent brandy all over his coat sleeve and hand.

"I beg your pardon, Your Grace," the man said apologetically, looking stricken.

Malcom bit back an oath. "It is of no import," he replied brusquely, striding towards the French doors, nodding dismissively over his shoulder at the stammering apologies trailing behind. To his disappointment, he found quite a few people out on the terrace. He tore off his mask, stuffing it into his coat pocket. Craving solitude, he quickly ran down the steps into the garden, turning left at the bottom and making for a distant, unlit pathway that he could stroll down unmolested and have a quiet smoke, perhaps by the fountain if no one was about. He fancied the melody of the softly rushing water might soothe his jangled nerves.

As he walked leisurely along, enjoying the fresh, cool, scented air, he wrung out the brandy from his cuff as best he could, hoping it would soon evaporate and not leave too much of an unsightly stain. He briefly hoped the pungent smell of alcohol might convince some of the ladies he was a sot and put them off. Encountering no one, he made his way along a green alley towards the fountain, choosing to stand in the shadows, partially concealed by foliage, though he still had a good view of the fountain. The space was deserted.

Enjoying a sense of respite, he reached for his cigar case. If I must endure this interminable evening, he thought, I can at least allow myself some small personal pleasure to sustain me. He lifted the glowing cigar to his lips and stepped out onto the paved area, heading towards the fountain. Suddenly, he heard the light thud of footsteps on stone to his left, as if someone was running up on him. Blast, he thought to himself, annoyed at being discovered, turning with a scowl to see who was coming.

***

Cassandra had never felt so free, not since childhood, at least. She fancied herself a wild horse as she raced along, her black hair flying, clutching her skirts in one hand as she charged towards the fountain. Then, to her horror, a man suddenly stepped out in front of her from one of the pathways, blocking her path. It was too late to stop, but she tried, only succeeding in tripping over her feet and flying helplessly forwards. She grimaced and closed her eyes in anticipation of the impact.

But it never came. Instead, she found herself caught in midair by a pair of strong arms that wrapped around her waist and prevented her from hitting the ground. With the breath knocked out of her, gripped by panic, she was next clasped against a broad, warm, decidedly masculine chest. Winded and horrified by her own recklessness, she looked up into the face of a tall, startlingly handsome man with black curly hair and piercing blue eyes, eyes which were as filled with shock as her own.

As if things could not get any worse just then, she heard voices, and both she and the gentleman holding her looked to their left, only to see a group of people emerging from the grand avenue. Cassandra's heart fell to see one of them was her mother, and the other their hostess, Lady Madeleine.

Realizing the gravity of the situation, she frantically tried to pull away before they were caught in such a compromising position. But as she did so, she found the braid at the front of her dress had caught on one of the gentleman's waistcoat buttons and refused to give way. The gentleman was trying to separate himself from her as well, a look of desperation on his face as the group of people approached.

But all efforts proved in vain, for there they were, stuck together in full view of the onlookers, whose lively chatter stopped instantly as they caught sight of the couple. Cassandra's blood ran cold to think of the scandalous spectacle they must present.

"Cassandra, what on earth do you think you are doing!?" came her mother's familiar voice, full of alarm, from beneath her mask. An array of masked guests in fancy costumes stood watching from behind. Cassandra's heart plummeted to the floor.

Oh, Lord! How am I going to explain this?

***

Malcom felt queasy as he finally extricated himself from the young woman's person and backed away. He stared down at his ruined cigar, which had landed some feet away, still burning, and realized at once that there was no getting out of the situation easily. It was the sort of situation that, though it was perfectly innocent, would be considered both scandalous and compromising by the onlookers and society as a whole. It was the kind that could destroy reputations and only be put right by a hasty marriage between two people who had never even met before.

"Malcom, whatever are you doing?!" he heard Madeleine ask in a shocked voice from behind the mask of a beautiful white feline.

"Malcom?" the young woman gasped, staring at him with an expression of what could only be termed horror. "Malcom Locksley? The Beast of Lindenhall?"

Malcom frowned at her and appealed to his cousin instead. "I assure you, I can explain, Madeleine," he hastened to say, forcing down his panic. "The young lady ran into me, and we collided, that is all. It was an accident."

Mutters of disapproval and disbelief ran around the small group of onlookers, all hidden behind their various disguises. He looked to the young lady for support, but she was gaping at him, her eyes wide.

"Come away, Cassandra," one of the women, he assumed the girl's mother, demanded shrilly from behind her Venetian-style mask, advancing and grabbing the young woman by her arm before pulling her way, back towards the house. The others hurried after them, already abuzz with gossip, he could tell, while Madeleine came up to him.

She removed her mask and looked at him with a shrewd yet sympathetic expression.

"Well, you have certainly done it now, Cousin. This is a highly compromising situation and bound to cause a significant scandal."

"But it was all an accident, I tell you," Malcom protested, filled with a cold sense of dread. "I merely came here for a quiet smoke, and she just collided into me as if from nowhere. I swear, I have never seen that young woman before in my life."

"That matters not to society," Madeleine said not unkindly. Malcom squirmed inwardly. He well knew the likely outcome of being caught in such a situation, but he vowed to himself to do everything he could to avoid it.

"There may be only one path to preserving the family's honour on both sides after being caught in such a disparaging position," she said, turning his blood cold. He balled his fists in frustrated fury. It was all Madeleine's fault that he was there at all. "A proposal of marriage may prove the only prudent recourse," his cousin added. "I had better go back to the house. The Granthams will need careful handling. Oh, what a mess you have gotten yourself into, Malcom!"

"The Granthams?" he inquired irritably, hating them already, furious at the young woman for not looking where she was going.

"The Granthams, the Marquess and Marchioness of Granshire," Madeleine explained. "The young lady so conspicuously found in your embrace is their elder daughter Cassandra, I believe."

"Oh, God. I am not marrying her, Madeleine. I absolutely refuse to be forced into a union with someone I do not know, just to satisfy the gossips. And I am sure she will feel the same!" he cried.

"As you well know, that counts for nothing," Madeleine told him. "We shall discuss it later. Now, I must go and inspect the damage." She turned away and headed back to the house, leaving Malcom standing alone, wondering what, or rather who, had just hit him.

This wretched Cassandra Grantham, that's what!