Marquesses at the Masquerade(54)

“My mother passed quickly, painfully,” she said.

“That must have been hard to watch.”

“Yes. She was so vivacious… like me. Or so they tell me. In the end, I was overwhelmed with sadness, of course, but she wasn’t hurting anymore. My father’s death was much slower. Cancer. I only truly got to know him in his last months.” She paused, remembering reading to him as he rested on a sofa in his study, while brown, twittering finches hopped about the vine growing along the sill. “He was very quiet. My mother’s world was among other people.” She gestured to the guests lingering about the door. “But my father lived in nature and his books. Funny the worlds we inhabit. Am I boring you?” She knew if she’d uttered such things to her aunt or cousins, she would receive only useless blank looks.

“While most dry English sorts bore me to flinders,” he said, “you are an exception and do not. Please continue. Tell me more about your father. He sounds fascinating.”

“He was a naturalist. He was captivated by the smallest detail, the kind most people would rush over.” She turned and looked at the man, whose eyes now glowed with sympathy. She wondered if her musketeer was perhaps a kind, old man, wizened by age. Perhaps that was why she felt so comfortable with him. “Did you know the true miracles are in the smallest of things?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“He saw all the miracles. I’m still learning, but I fear I haven’t my father’s talents for observation.”

“But he showed you where to look.”

Her lips spread into an appreciative smile. “You put it so neatly. I have kept his drawings to remind me. When I finally find a new home, I shall put them on the wall so that I will see them every day, like my mother’s necklace.” She touched the small ruby at her neck. “I want to keep them near me.”

“You have no home?”

“I’m currently staying with my aunt, but…” She shrugged. “I don’t know where I’m going. I live day to day now.”

“I understand.”

Silence crept over the conversation. It was that kind of silence she’d learned from her father. When no words were exchanged, yet meaning filled the void. She instinctively knew this stranger lived day to day as well. She knew he hurt in a way he wasn’t conveying. She couldn’t articulate how she comprehended him. She just felt him.

A cluster of people on the side of the terrace broke into loud laughter, destroying the quiet.

“Might I recommend Madrid as a home?” the musketeer said. “Excellent climate and charming people.”

She shrugged. “Madrid, Timbuktu, Saint Petersburg, Dover.”

“Dover is far too remote. It’s a treacherous half-day trip from London by coach and sled dog.”

“And I understand the roads are strewn with highwaymen, Mongol hordes, and, of course, the famed blood-thirsty pirates.”

“Have you no protector, fair maiden? No hopeless romance? You see, to a musketeer, all romances are conveniently doomed things, because, well, a musketeer must dash off to the next adventure. He can’t be tied down when a quest calls.”

“Once,” she admitted, hearing the brittleness in her own voice. “Long ago.”

“It—it sounds as though you still have emotions for him.” The amusement had left his voice. The question was a serious one.

She studied him. Who was he? His gaze was as mesmerizing as the moon above them. She knew it was reckless to admit her secrets to a stranger. But were they truly secrets if they burned to be known?

“I fear my Theseus has abandoned me,” she confessed. “He has sailed away. My heart hurts, and no Dionysus awaits on the horizon to comfort me. Perhaps I should—”

“My wife died.” His words spilled out, broken and raw.

She seized his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t draw away but tightened his hold on her fingers. His palm was both soft and rough—not what she’d expected from an older man. The warmth of his clasp radiated through her. She hadn’t touched many men, only Patrick and her father. The musketeer’s touch reminded her of neither. It was kinder, lighter—the touch of a sympathetic friend.

A woman’s voice broke the silence. “Lord Exmore, there you—oh my, am I interrupting something? I do hope so.” She gave a light, tinkling laugh.

Annalise gasped. Exmore! The man holding her hand was Exmore!

The musketeer—Exmore—bolted up from the bench, concealing Annalise behind him. “What do you want?” he rudely responded to the woman. A hardness had entered his voice. It was the voice she remembered from years ago. Annalise began to shiver. What had she done?

“Oh, I shan’t get in the way of your seduction du jour.” The woman disappeared in waves of blue silk, her laughter trailing behind her.

Exmore slowly turned. Dizzying heat rushed to Annalise’s head.

“I’m sorry, Miss Van Der Keer. I—”

“Wait!” The realization burst in her mind. “You knew it was me! You knew! H-how long have you known?”

He released a breath and raked his hands through his hair. “Since you entered the ballroom with your aunt.”

She glanced down. Her hands were shaking. She felt violated. He had been playing with her. He’d pretended to be so sympathetic, but a true sympathetic, kind person wouldn’t carry out such mean trickery. She was humiliated thinking about all she had confided to him… about her father, about Patrick…