Marquesses at the Masquerade(61)

“Oh, you mean that one. I was smiling at the gentleman next to you.”

He repressed a chuckle and feigned an angry face. “Well, for that, I won’t tell you the secret about Christiaan Visser’s upcoming lecture.”

“What?” She dropped her hands from his grasp. All her playfulness vanished. “No, no, you must tell me! You see, he’s my father’s favorite,” she cried. “I read to Papa from Visser’s work in our garden during his last months. I have such memories. You must tell me. No jesting now.”

He gently gathered her hand in his, and they turned together. “Tuesday. At the Royal Institution at eleven in the morning.”

“That’s four days away! It might as well be four lifetimes.”

“Patience, milady.”

She flicked her wrist dismissively. “I’ve had enough of this patience everyone speaks so highly of. I don’t find it virtuous at all, but irksome.”

He wanted to dance her out of the room, onto the street, and to someplace where they could laugh and talk, away from the others. He wanted her all for himself.

“Will you attend the lecture as well?” she asked.

“Would my presence trouble you?”

She studied his face. He had to look away in the heat of her frank gaze. Were the deplorable ways he had spent his days and nights since Cassandra’s death evident in his eyes?

“Yes,” she whispered.

He tried to disguise his disappointment. “I understand.”

Her brows drew down into confusion, and then her face lit with realization. “Oh, I meant, yes, please come. No, your presence won’t trouble me. I should like to see you.” He wasn’t sure if she was aware that her fingers had tightened gently on his. “Do you think… Do you think that we can be friends?”

He had never been friends with a woman before. The women he knew fell into the categories of family, acquaintances, or lovers, but not friends. Yet, at this moment, he wanted to be her friend more than anything. It would be something honest and innocent. Things he hadn’t encountered in a long while. “I should like that very much.”

The music had ended, and they were still holding hands. “Thank you for your secret,” she said quietly. “And for rescuing my family and for making me laugh.”

“I believe you are guilty of causing me to chuckle once or twice.”

“It feels lovely to laugh again.” Her eyes were gleaming like jewels under the chandelier.

“Yes.”

Another few seconds ticked by before she slowly released him. “It’s Phoebe’s turn,” she whispered, and then that impish smile he adored returned. “This dance will be the pinnacle of her Season. Do make it worthy of her theatrical imaginings. You may want to fight a duel with another dancer or create other high drama.”

*



Annalise marveled at Exmore’s potent societal powers. After an hour spent being pointedly ignored and then asked to leave, now she had to politely turn away potential dance partners. This radical change happened merely because Exmore had asked her to dance and let her glow in his brilliant light. Society was as fickle as it was shallow. Once, she had aspired to its flimsy adoration. Now, she found it ridiculous.

Nonetheless, she smiled and conversed with her new partners and apologized for stepping upon their toes. But how could she respect them after Exmore? A true gentleman wouldn’t bend to the pressures of Society. He would act according to his own mind, as gallant Exmore, the modern musketeer, had.

The dance continued until the early hours. Exmore stayed for the entire time, dancing with all the young ladies. Annalise loved watching their giddy excitement at being whirled in the arms of London’s premier rake—the dashing gentleman most of them had seen only from afar and excitedly gossiped about among their friends. Annalise and he crossed paths in several dances. They would share a smile, as if they were privy to a private joke. Annalise found that dancing, conversing, and simply being with others was easier with a friend, a true kindred spirit, near her.

As she was leaving, Exmore accidentally bumped against her when he hailed a servant for a glass of punch. “Four long, miserable days,” he whispered. She struggled to maintain her countenance.

*



Back in her chamber, Annalise was too excited to sleep. Even the most boring passages of her father’s esoteric academic books could do nothing to calm her spirits. Finally, she dipped her pen.



Dear Patrick,

Tonight, I am happy. Truly happy. I have become friends with the last person you would expect of befriending me. Exmore. He wrote me the kindest letter of apology, and then he arrived like a hero to save me from disgrace. Not that I minded the disgrace. London hardly matters to me anymore. You are not here. All that remains are memories, and now I find that they are not enough to sustain me. I must go forward even as I prefer to go back. I can never be the girl I was once before. I have tried, but it is futile.

I am not the only one who has changed.

I was shocked when I first saw Exmore without his mask. His eyes appeared so painfully tired—like those old, weathered men who worked on the canal boats at home. Not the eyes one expects on a marquess. His handsome face shows the wear of the dissipated life he now leads. How his wife’s death has broken him. My heart hurts for him despite all the resentment I had harbored for him for so long.