Marquesses at the Masquerade(8)

It was at that moment that Marcus’s eyes, carelessly passing over his grandmother’s left shoulder, fell on a woman dressed in blue. She was striking, even with part of her face hidden by her silver demi-mask. A delicate wash of pink warmed the fair skin of her cheeks, her glossy dark brown hair looked as rich as sable, and she had a shapely figure that showed to advantage in her gown. But her beauty wasn’t what riveted him—there were scores of beautiful women present. Partly, he was drawn to her mouth, which was curled in an expression of benevolent amusement. But mostly, he was drawn to her eyes.

He couldn’t see their color—he was a good dozen feet away—but they had light in them. And he suddenly knew that he had to know more about that light.

But who was she? Even though she was wearing a mask, he was certain that if he’d ever seen those eyes before, he would remember.

“See something interesting, do you, Marcus?” his grandmother asked. As the movements of the dance brought them in clear sight of the woman in blue, he inclined his head in her direction.

“Do you know who that lady is, the one in that silvery blue gown?”

Lady Tremont squinted, and he was reminded that she was not wearing her spectacles. “Is that Francesca Gaitskill? I believe she’s recently arrived in town, and she has dark hair.”

“It’s not Francesca Gaitskill,” he said as the music came to an end.

Marcus took his grandmother’s elbow to lead her off the dance floor, all the while keeping the mystery woman in sight, which wasn’t easy in the crowded room. He suspected, from the heads turned in her direction, that several other gentlemen had their eyes on her as well.

“Go,” Lady Tremont said.

“Eh?”

She patted his hand where it touched her elbow. “Never mind about me, I’m not so nearsighted that I can’t find my way to the lemonade table. Go speak with this blue-clad lady. If she’s some new mystery beauty, every unmarried man in the room will already be scheming to make her acquaintance, and a disgraceful number of married ones as well.”

Marcus didn’t need to be told twice. He dropped a kiss on his grandmother’s forehead and muttered his thanks.

*



Rosamund, twirling around the ballroom in the arms of a gentleman wearing a wine-colored demi-mask, already knew that she would remember this night for the rest of her life.

She was at the Marquess of Boxhaven’s masquerade ball, in his grand town house, surrounded by happy, lovely people dancing to beautiful music. From the tips of her jeweled dancing shoes to the topmost swirl of her hair, she felt grateful to be alive and young. Across the ballroom, she had spied her aunt and cousins standing amid a group of ladies watching the dancers, and nothing had happened. The ballroom was so crowded, in fact, that Rosamund doubted her relatives would even see her. Even if they did, she felt fairly safe behind her mask, and she knew that she looked nothing like the shabbily dressed person on whom they regularly dumped their piles of holey stockings.

She had been prepared to simply watch the dancers. She had not danced since she was fourteen, and she had thought that simply being at the ball was already so wonderful that it would have been enough. But hardly had she entered the ballroom when a gentleman had approached and asked for a dance, and she hadn’t lacked for partners since.

When it happened, her gallant partner in the wine-colored mask was playfully, though with increasing focus, trying to guess her name. Rosamund’s eyes, passing over the shoulder of her partner, met those of a tall gentleman, and something electric passed between them.

Her dance partner was still talking, but it was as though everything and everyone in the ballroom were falling away, and the only other person now there with her was the tall gentleman whose gaze held hers.

He was dressed in black with a beautifully crisp white cravat and a black satin demi-mask. His hair was golden brown, and she thought—or maybe she felt, or just knew—that his eyes were blue. He smiled at her, collapsing the space between them as the dance came to an end.

“Won’t you please tell me your name, oh mystery lady?” her partner asked, breaking the spell.

Before she could reply—not that she intended to give her name—the tall gentleman was at her side.

“I believe the next dance is mine,” he said, his eyes glittering at her conspiratorially.

She smiled. She’d never tasted champagne, but she’d seen it freshly poured in a glass, and she felt as though champagne bubbles were rising inside her. “Is it?”

He cast a look at her dance partner that was equal parts haughty and warm, and she wondered who this tall gentleman was. He might be some lord, perhaps a friend of the Marquess of Boxhaven. He might even be the marquess, she thought giddily, before discarding the idea. The Marquess of Boxhaven would be far too busy at his own ball to be taking note of someone like her. He was probably dancing with at least a viscountess.

“You’ll excuse us, won’t you?” the tall gentleman said to her partner.

Her partner inclined his head—she had the sense the two men knew each other, though the conventions of the masquerade encouraged anonymity. With a last glance at Rosamund, her dancing partner walked away.

“I’m not certain that was polite,” she said to the tall gentleman, but she was smiling.

“He’ll live.” The music was starting. “Do you really want to dance?” he asked.