Marquesses at the Masquerade(53)
“I endeavor to always please the ladies, of course.” He rubbed his beard again. She could see an amused smile peeking below its whiskers. “But of course. You are a butterfly trying to break from a poorly constructed cocoon.”
“An awkward metamorphosis of sorts? Sadly, not in this case. Here, I shall relieve your misery. I’m Ariadne.”
“From the Greek myth, of course.”
“You know it!”
He stared at her for a moment and then blinked. “Of course. Doesn’t everyone?”
She smiled, warmth flooding her body. “That’s what I thought. Yet, everyone else has looked at me when I told them as if… well, as if I should have dressed as an inmate of Bedlam.”
He tilted his head. “I quite enjoy the charming inhabitants of Bedlam. One of the very few places you can hold an intelligent conversation in London. Do you ever feel the sane are locked up and the insane are roaming the streets and known as the general population of London?”
What an odd thing for a stranger to say. But she laughed. She hadn’t truly laughed, it seemed, in months, maybe years.
“Very clever, indeed, Ariadne.” He reached out and touched a string on her skirt. The touch wasn’t intimidating, but friendly. Another string fell away at his light touch.
“Sadly, I don’t think I’ll be rescuing Theseus with my poor thread. The Minotaur will surely eat him.”
The man dismissively waved his hand. “He deserved it for how he treated you, leaving you heartbroken after you saved his sad hide.”
“Ah, but I get Dionysus in the end.”
“And Dionysus is Bacchus to the Romans. I think all stories that end with Bacchus are good endings.”
“I agree.” She felt herself smile and then became self-conscious. While she was wildly delighted to discuss something other than balls and gowns, she shouldn’t have been alone on a terrace with a male stranger. She glanced toward the door, where light and noise from the party spilled out. She couldn’t help but think that this party was a modern version of the Minotaur’s maze.
“Aren’t you going to venture a guess at who I am?” the man asked. He affected a hurt tone. “How rude not to ask.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said dramatically. “I didn’t mean to offend. Hmmm, let me see…” She narrowed her eyes, pretending to concentrate. He was costumed from head to toe, his intense eyes the only part of him unconcealed.
“I’ll give you some hints. I’m exotic, loyal, and very dangerous.” He raised his sword. “And I possess most excellent props.” He set his sword between his teeth.
She made a clucking sound. “A poor adventure-seeking musketeer such as yourself must find English ballrooms a bore.”
He removed the sword from his mouth. “I admit there isn’t enough intrigue, mystery, threats of revenge, hidden treasure, or swordplay to pique my interest, so I had to come out in the moonlight to pine for my Spanish home.”
“I find this ball full of intrigue and mystery. For instance, it’s been so long since I’ve attended a ball that every dance has become a mystery, and as for intrigue, I feel like I’m in some miniature version of the court of Louis XIV.”
“Tell me, where have you been? Say it was Spain.”
“You make me laugh,” she said. “I love to laugh.” Then she shook her head and turned serious. “I’ve been at home in the country caring for my parents. They recently passed.”
She could feel his penetrating gaze on her face, as if he knew her throat was burning and that her heart hurt.
“I’m truly sorry,” he whispered, all hints of drunkenness gone from his voice.
“Thank you.” It was the first true acknowledgment of her parents’ deaths since she’d come to London. Her aunt and her family had flitted briefly on the matter and then changed the subject as if death were some vile, embarrassing secret, and by speaking of it, they hastened their own demises.
“I’ve recently had a death in my family,” he said quietly. “Well, it’s been a few years now. But it never leaves my mind for long. Memories lie in wait for me at almost every turn.”
“It’s very disorienting,” she admitted, feeling her emotions gushing as if a lock on a canal had been opened, letting the waters rise. “I’ve lost my parents and my home. It was all in the natural course of things, yet now… now…” She paused. She shouldn’t admit such emotional things to a stranger, but she felt as though she had been secreting away words for years, with no one to share them with, except in letters she never sent to Patrick. “I spent years caring for my parents. It consumed all my hours and thoughts. And now that I’m back in London, I feel like I’m on a beach, trying to find the seashell that I once fit in. But it’s gone. Washed away. I’m different, but I don’t know how.” She brushed her hand on her gown. “I’m a costume of broken threads. I’m sorry, I should say—”
“Were they sick for very long?”
Only after she had sat on the bench beside the man, did she think that perhaps she shouldn’t have. But why did it matter now? She didn’t know how much longer she would remain in London anyway, stewing in memories of Patrick, who wasn’t coming back... at least, not for her. Maybe her future rested across the ocean in Holland with her father’s family. She had never been there, but her faithful moon companion would follow her.