Marquesses at the Masquerade(90)
How embarrassing. He could not place the Valkyrie’s voice, though she sounded familiar. Educated, of course, and not particularly regional.
“We could dance if you insist,” he said. “I’ll secret my hammer behind an arras.”
“Thank you, no. My personal Praetorian Guard might think himself welcome to renew his attentions. Is that all people do at these affairs? Leer and flirt and swill punch?”
“I’m told this is called socializing among the English.”
She stretched her feet out before her. “I’m English, rather than who I appear to be. You must forgive my lack of familiarity with masked balls.”
She wore sturdy half-boots instead of dancing slippers. The Valkyrie were known to be unsentimental ladies, though half-boots were astonishingly practical.
“Isn’t that rather the point of a masquerade?” Tyne asked. “To be somebody else for a short time, to impersonate a more daring, dashing creature than one is in truth?”
“I’m impersonating a friend,” she said. “Somebody I went to school with. She asked me to attend, wearing this costume, so she might for once stay home and rest. I am not deceived, though. She wanted me to have an adventurous evening. I’m ready to fly back to Valhalla, if this is society’s idea of an enjoyable evening.”
The Valkyrie were also honest, apparently.
“I have a suggestion,” Tyne said, rising. “Like the conscientious, plundering Viking that I am, why don’t I make a pass through the buffet? The least you’re owed is some sustenance before you give up on your adventure.”
“I’ll guard your hammer,” she replied. “I love fruit and cheese above all combinations.”
Tyne rested the long handle of his hammer against the side of the bench. Because the sconce was unlit, he couldn’t see his companion in detail, but he could hear that she was smiling.
So was he. “I’m to be on watch for a blue unicorn with a purple sparkly horn. No other breed will do. Guard my hammer well, Madam Valkyrie.”
He strode off, wondering if the single cup of punch he’d sampled had addled his wits. He was about to set a new record for his appearance at one of Boxhaven’s masquerade balls. Sylvie would be proud of him, and Amanda would think him quite silly.
Though, as to that, he hadn’t even confessed to Amanda where he’d be spending his evening. And poor Madam Valkyrie. The notion that anybody could meet with adventure at a venue as tedious as a masquerade ball was absurd. Tyne could locate strawberries, though, and oranges, and stewed apples.
But what on earth could he find to discuss with the lady while they consumed their victuals?
*
“Fruit and cheese,” Thor said, passing Lucy a plate. “Also some ham, for I imagine all that flying you Valkyries do from battlefield to battlefield is hungry work.”
He settled beside her on the bench, the furniture creaking under his weight. He was blond and Viking-sized, and the cape swirling about his shoulders and hint of golden beard on his cheeks gave him a dashing air.
Lucy took the plate, which was heaped high with food. “I can’t possibly eat all of this.”
“That’s the idea,” he replied, bumping her with his shoulder. “You eat as much as you like, and I’ll deal with the rest. English plates are too small for a man of my northern appetites.”
“Melon,” Lucy said, picking up a silver fork. “I lose my wits in the presence of fresh melon.”
“Your adventurous spirit has been rewarded. What else would make this evening enjoyable?”
“Peace and quiet, though this cheese is scrumptious.” Blue veins, pungent flavor, creamy texture. The perfect complement to the melon.
Thor used his fingers to pop a rolled-up slice of ham into his mouth. “You sound weary, Madam Valkyrie.”
His earlier comment, about flying from battlefield to battlefield, was more apt than he knew. Lucy’s specialty was children who’d lost a parent. Even the aristocracy boasted a sad abundance of the half-orphaned. Wealthy parents might not take much notice of their offspring, but the children noticed when a parent died.
The agencies that placed governesses knew Lucy dealt well with such families, and thus she’d landed in Lord Tyne’s household.
“I don’t typically keep such late hours,” she said, spearing a strawberry. “I’ll pay for this tomorrow.”
“Try sitting in Parliament. Why the wheels of government can only turn after dark has ever confounded me. I’ve a theory that most men have a quiet dread of the ballrooms and dinner parties, and Parliament schedules its debates and committee meetings the better to spare its members the social venues.”
Lord Tyne seemed to thrive on his parliamentary obligations, though he also struck Lucy as a man in want of sleep most of the time.
“What would you rather be doing?” she asked. Perhaps Thor was an MP, though at this gathering, a titled lord was more likely.
He considered another rolled-up slice of ham. “I’m watching for stray unicorns. The work is hardly exciting, but you meet all the best people.”
Was he flirting? “And you get to carry a very fine hammer about all evening.”
“A consummation devoutly to be wished.”
They ate the fruit and cheese—Lucy took a single slice of ham—in companionable quiet. “Take the last strawberry,” and “Should have found you a spoon for the apples,” the extent of the conversation. Marianne wouldn’t understand how this qualified as an adventure for Lucy—sharing a plate with a strange god—but Lucy was enjoying herself, mostly.