Masquerade Read online

  A glance at Rachel’s smug smile cast aside any misgivings remaining in Sophie’s head.

  “Yes,” Sophie said with a vigorous nod.

  “Y-yes?” The word came out as a strangled gasp.

  Sophie nearly laughed aloud, but watching Rachel wriggle like a worm from a hook dangling inches above a fish-filled pond was too much fun to spoil by laughing.

  “That’s right. I resolve to entertain—seriously entertain—an offer from the next gentleman—a gentleman, mind you, not a rake or a rogue, but a gentleman—who puts one forth. That is my New Year’s resolution.”

  Chapter 4

  Sophie could hardly believe she had made such a drastic resolution, but the words were out and there was no way to call them back. She hoped they wouldn’t return later to haunt her, the way words spoken in jest or on the spur of the moment often had a terrible habit of doing.

  There was no help for it. She would just have to wait and see what—if anything—came of the ridiculous resolution.

  The truth was she had never gotten an offer of marriage she believed serious enough to consider. The even clearer truth was the only one who had come close to requesting her hand in marriage had been Colin, and it had been when she was seven and he nine. They both had the mumps and were confined indoors. He had sent her a note, by way of Penny who had already suffered through the childhood affliction and was deemed immune. The note had read:

  Dear Sophie,

  When we are better we should run off and eat biscuits for the rest of our lives. Are you agreeable?

  Love, Colin

  Of course, Sophie never considered he would expect her to run away with him unless they were lawfully wed, so she considered it a proposal. By the time their cheeks were no longer swollen and they were free from house confinement, Colin seemed to have forgotten the note. He never mentioned the idea again, so Sophie did what any well-mannered seven-year-old girl would do: She pretended she had forgotten his proposal, and went on with her life.

  The note was tucked between the pages of Sophie’s Bible. She had kept it all these years, but she wouldn’t admit that to anyone—not even Rachel.

  “Stand up straight,” Rachel whispered in her ear. The feeling of having Rachel’s warm breath stir her curls brought gooseflesh out on her arms, so Sophie rubbed her hands along the exposed flesh and pulled her head back.

  “I am standing straight,” she hissed. “I feel like a ghost just walked over my grave…ugh, I hate when that happens, don’t you?”

  “Forget about it. There is a new crush of people in the doorway, and some of them are well-cut figures of masked men. How can you not see them?” Rachel stuck an elbow in Sophie’s side. “Over there, look.”

  “I see them! Don’t poke me again, or I shall…”

  “What? What will you do—refuse to look at the handsome newcomer who is, even now, staring this way? Hmm?”

  For one moment she considered giving one of Rachel’s elaborate curls a hard yank, but she resisted the urge—just barely. Instead, Sophie ever-so slowly turned her head toward the doorway. Rachel was right. Several new arrivals stood in the space, and most of them were male.

  Rachel hadn’t stretched the truth about the newcomer who looked their way. He was dashing, and elegantly dressed—and her heart skipped a beat when she realized he was staring straight at her.

  A wave of familiarity swept over her like the hint of a favorite flower fragrance borne on a warm summer breeze. It touched her, filling her head before disappearing as quickly as it was upon her.

  The idea that the man in the doorway could be anyone she or Rachel was acquainted with was outrageous. They did not run in circles where gentlemen dressed so finely, or held their heads so proudly. There was no way at all she could have anything in common with such a fellow.

  It was more likely the peonies in the back garden would suddenly bloom beneath their heavy layer of snow and ice than Sophie and the masked newcomer might share any familiar experience.

  “He is a handsome devil, isn’t he?” Rachel whispered gleefully. Sophie felt a sharp poke in her side, and entertained yet again the idea of pulling one of her sister’s curls the way she had done when they were younger. “And, more to the point, he is staring right at you.”

  “Stop sticking your elbow in my side. And how do you know I’m the object of his attention? He could just as easily be staring at you.” Even as the words left her lips, she knew they weren’t true. There could be no mistake—he held her in his gaze as tightly as if an invisible string stretched from his body to hers. They were attached, and neither one seemed ready to break the bond.

  “I don’t think so, sister. Here he comes. His path looks like it will lead straight to you, and only you. Remember, now—we have a bargain. You’ve made a promise, and I won’t allow you to forget it.”

  “Hush, Rachel. I am older than you are, but I am not so old as to be addlebrained. I remember my promise, although it is hardly at issue.” Sophie smoothed a suddenly damp palm down the front of her skirt. “The man hasn’t even said a word to me. There is little danger of his offering to marry me anytime soon. But—” She cut Rachel’s protest off with a brisk nod. “I won’t forget our agreement.”

  “Good. That’s all I ask.” The words were so softly spoken that no one besides Sophie could hear them amidst the din of the swelling party.

  He had reached their side of the dance floor. For one awful, heart-stopping instant she thought he might veer off and speak with someone else. He looked momentarily unsure, or as unsure as she could guess given the intricate mask covering almost all of his face.

  Her own mask emboldened her. Sophie gave her best smile as she silently willed her legs to stop shaking. The green gown was good for one thing, at least. It hid her knocking knees more effectively than a more fashionable, sheerer gown would have done.

  The ploy seemed to do the trick. The masked gentleman returned her smile. Then, he covered the remaining distance between them.

  From across the wide room, he had seemed dashing. Up close, he was that—but much more so.

  Sophie had seen her share of Bond Street Beaus—but only from a distance. She had never had occasion to shop on fashionable Bond Street herself, one of the London areas where the shops were far out of reach of her purse. But she was not immune to the fashionably turned-out gentlemen who exited the street, their greatcoats, boots, and inexpressibles impeccable and exceedingly more expensive and fashionable than any man she personally knew might wear.

  This masked man standing before her was of such substance. His eveningwear made him appear larger than life. The jacket, vest, and breeches were made of finer fabric than she had seen before. The shade of gray was so dark that only the most costly weave could hold such a vast amount of color. His white shirt was starched and pressed to razor sharpness, and the cravat he wore at his neck was flawlessly tied.

  She tilted her head back slightly and attempted to see into his eyes, but he took that exact moment to sweep a magnificent leg and bow deeply. Sophie returned the gesture by curtseying lower than she normally did. The moment felt charged, but she could not understand why it was so. Men did not usually have the effect this one was having. She shook her head. Suddenly she was more befogged than she had been all evening.

  The heat is getting to me, she thought absently. She didn’t feel overly warm, but what else would account for the unexpected wave of fuzziness between her ears?

  “Good evening.” His voice was gravelly but his words perfectly polite.

  Part of the excitement of a masked dance was allowing some of the “normal” societal strictures to relax. Had their faces been on display, they would not have been able to simply speak without a proper introduction. But with the masks came freedom—to a point.

  “Good evening.” Sophie hoped her voice pleased him as much as his sent a thrill through her.

  She waited for him to proceed, but he stared at her for a long, silent moment. His scrutiny was neither rude nor disc
oncerting. He seemed to struggle to find something to say, although she couldn’t see why that was the case. Why, they certainly couldn’t have run out of words this early in their association! They had each only used two words from the entire English language. Countless possibilities were still open to them.

  Finally, he spoke. “The weather has been unseasonably brutal, hasn’t it?”

  The statement was absurd. They were fully into winter, which was, by its very nature, a brutal time of the year. Sophie did not try to restrain herself—she laughed aloud.

  Astonishment widened the two eyes peeking out of his mask. She noted his eyebrows disappeared behind the screen of black silk and feathers. He looked rather like a startled owl, but since she had almost certainly annoyed him by laughing outright at his opening line she kept the thought to herself.

  Apparently, the gentleman had a sense of humor. He shook his head, and the wavering light thrown by the gas lamps made his thick black waves shine. “Why, that is rather funny, isn’t it? How could I have made such a ridiculous observation? It’s a good thing for me you can’t see my face, and witness my humiliation.”

  He dropped his chin to his chest, and closed his eyes. The pose lasted a few seconds but it was long enough for Sophie to see the square jaw line and lush mop of hair obscured by a front view of his mask.

  So he does have hair. A full head, at that!

  A smile twitched her lips upward at the edges. She had met a man with hair. Now, if she could only be lucky enough that he ask for a dance.

  “Are you laughing at me?” The huskiness in his voice made each word sound almost gruff. She looked closely into his eyes. They twinkled, so she smiled. “Aha! I see you are finding your amusement at my expense.”

  “No, of course I’m not.” Sophie giggled into one gloved hand. “Well, perhaps I am, but just a very little.”

  She remembered Rachel, who had been standing right beside her when the stranger first approached. Now she turned, speaking as she did. “Have you met my sister? Of course I cannot divulge her name but—” At the sight of Rachel laughing up into the face of a handsome man, Sophie snapped her mouth shut. The pair stood a few yards away, and seemed fully engaged in conversation.

  “Your sister seems to have met someone already.” Amusement made him sound less gruff. “I wouldn’t worry overmuch. She is speaking with Jo—oh! I nearly forgot, we aren’t divulging names tonight, are we? Well, your sister is speaking with one of my closest friends. He is a reputable gentleman, so she is perfectly safe in his company.”

  The next logical comment would be to point out that she had just met him, so how could she take his guarantee on his friend’s reputation? When she turned to say so, she found him looking at her so intently the words flew from her mind.

  Her throat tightened, her hands moistened, and her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth. It was as if, for that moment in time, the room around them fell away until nothing remained except the two of them. In the distance Sophie heard the musicians begin to warm up their instruments, but she had no conscious thought about music, dancing, or anything else save the gaze of the man standing directly in front of her staring into her own spellbound eyes.

  The music began and people started to form lines in anticipation of the next dance. Had the affair been in one of London’s eminently fashionable homes or assembly rooms, the dance might have been a French cotillion or some other similarly intricate and high-class selection. As they were at a more relaxed residence, all of the evening’s dances would be either waltzes or country-style dances performed in long rows. This first choice for the next round was a common line dance.

  He solicitously held out an arm. “May I have this dance?”

  There was nothing Sophie wanted more than to dance with the handsome stranger. She nodded, and placed her hand on his arm.

  “Yes, you may.”

  He chuckled, the sound sending shivers of pleasure up her spine. She was more aware of his presence, the scent of his aftershave lotion, and the heat coming from his body through her palm than she thought possible. Sophie’s response to this unknown man was involuntary, but if it had been something she had some control over, she wouldn’t have tried to stop the exquisite sensations coursing through her. The closest she had ever gotten to feeling this way about anyone had been in her dreams.

  “This is not a dream,” she whispered.

  The first strains of music covered the sound of her voice. Still, somehow he was as aware of her as she was of him.

  He leaned toward her. “Pardon? Did you say something?”

  Swallowing her excitement, Sophie took her place in the ladies’ dance row. She shook her head.

  “No. I didn’t.”

  With a quizzical half-smile, he murmured, “As you wish.”

  He took his place across from her. While they waited for the music to begin, Sophie took the chance to study him. There was something familiar about the man. There was no doubting it anymore. Somehow, somewhere, sometime they had run into each other and he had left an imprint on her memory. It was most likely a random encounter, one of the sort where no names were given, when gazes locked or polite passing nods were exchanged, she decided. What else could it possibly be?

  If she had met a man this charming—really met him, in a face-to-face, proper-introduction manner—she would have remembered him. They had only “known” each other for a short time, barely long enough to exchange the most rudimentary comments, yet Sophie knew she would never forget him.

  This man was unforgettable. In her mind, and in her heart, Sophie knew she would never forget the man or the evening for as long as she lived.

  ****

  Three hours later, Sophie was even more certain the night would go down in her personal history as one of the very best of her lifetime.

  Her masked partner had been attentive and witty. He was intelligent and spoke freely on a wide range of topics.

  Their discussions ranged from literature, about which Sophie knew much, being a bluestocking by her own admission, to theatre, about which she was woefully lacking, as the family had little money to spend on such an extravagance. They touched upon current events, both agreeing the madness of King George was entirely troubling as well as somewhat embarrassing. Still, they supposed, one couldn’t choose whether or not to be touched in the upper works, so the King couldn’t be blamed for his mental disturbance. After all, there had to be some leeway on certain matters, didn’t there?

  Perhaps the most exciting part of the conversation was the small kindnesses her unidentified partner bestowed upon her. They came several times during the dance, and each time he anticipated her needs she was touched by his thoughtful nature.

  When Sophie felt parched from dancing, he procured a glass of punch without her having to request it. After one particularly strenuous round, she was so hot in her heavy gown she felt she might actually swoon. It was, now that the moment was truly upon her, not something she wished to do—it might spoil the fun she was having or, just as distressing, might knock her mask askew. She needn’t have worried. Just when she thought she might crumple at the man’s feet, he placed a gentle hand beneath her elbow and steered her toward a partially open window. They stood side by side and gazed out at the winter wonderland that lay beyond the cold pane of glass, and for that moment Sophie was appreciative of the dreaded dress and its smothering qualities.

  “This is the final dance of the evening.” As the hours went on, the hoarseness in her partner’s voice deepened. Now every word was a rumble, so low and throaty she imagined she spoke to a wolf or lion instead of a man. More than once Sophie had clenched her fist by her side, so great was her desire to reach out and place a hand on his chest to feel the reverberations she knew accompanied each statement or inquiry. “I confess I’m disappointed our time together is nearly at an end.”

  Sophie felt a sharp stab of regret. The evening had been glorious, and she unreservedly wished it might never end.

  Hours earlier,
she had given up a number of social pretenses. Now, she did not attempt to hide the truth from her dance partner.

  With a sigh that felt pulled from her toes, she said, “Your honesty is refreshing, sir. I wish we could be so forthright, even when our faces are not concealed.”

  “Ah, so you admire honesty?”

  “I do. It is, I think, one of the most compelling traits one can possess.”

  He cleared his throat, and then asked, “And what other traits do you hold in high esteem?”

  When she hesitated, he shrugged and the movement took her attention from their conversation. His finely tailored jacket stretched across his broad shoulders, something that had happened more than once during the dancing. Sophie could not help herself; she was mesmerized by the strength that lay beneath the expensive fabric, hidden but still such a vital part of the man he could not conceal himself completely from view. The attraction to his muscular physique was surprising, since she was typically more inclined to find a man’s intellect more intriguing than his stature.

  “Are you keeping me in suspense merely to heighten my desire to hear your opinion? If you are, I assure you it’s not necessary.” His words were tinged with amusement. “I’m on the edge of my seat—no, that isn’t right, is it?” They stood beneath a gas lamp, in the golden circle of light it cast. There were no chairs within sitting distance. “I cannot be on a chair’s edge, can I? Well…as we are standing, I shall amend my statement and admit that I am on the edges of my toes, just waiting to learn what other qualities you find most desirable in a man.”

  A small giggle escaped her lips. On the edges of his toes, indeed! His wittiness had kept her smiling all evening. It amazed her that he could find something humorous at every turn of a phrase.

  While she wasn’t prone to flirtatious behavior, Sophie couldn’t resist a bit of teasing. “Oh? I wasn’t aware we were discussing the most desirable traits in men. That, of course, changes things.”