Lord of the Masquerade by Erica Ridley

Chapter 15

Unity didn’t just kiss him back. She gripped the hard muscle of the Duke of Lambley’s upper arms and held on tight. He kissed her as though he were a long-lost sailor, reuniting with his true love again after endless years at sea.

Instead, Unity was the drowned rat.

Wind had turned her umbrella inside-out days ago, and she hadn’t had time to shop for a new one. The rain had tripled her hair’s already impressive natural volume, and turned the jaunty feathers of her bonnet into limp, wet bits of confetti littering her black curls.

The section of gown sticking out from beneath her pelisse was drenched with equal parts drizzle and puddle.

And Lambley—seemed not to notice any of it. He looked at her as though she were the leading lady, starring in the most celebrated opera of the century. He touched her as though she were beautiful, not bedraggled.

As for him... Had there ever been a man more fine?

She’d taken him by surprise. The masquerade wasn’t for hours. Yet he was groomed as though the Queen herself might stop by at any moment to have a cup of tea. His coat fit him to perfection. His cravat was a work of art. And his soft brown hair... was rakishly rumpled, thanks to Unity’s fingers sliding through it to bring his lips closer to hers.

When at last he released her from his arms, there was nowhere else she wished to be. But the expression on his handsome face was so mischievous, she was immediately on her guard.

“What is it?” she asked suspiciously.

“It’s... spontaneity day!” He grinned at her.

She blinked at him. “What?”

He crossed the parlor in two strides and lifted a familiar-looking book from a side table.

It was the diary she’d brought him. With the schedule she’d teased could help him unbend a tiny bit.

He was using it.

Maybe.

She crossed her arms. “Why is your spontaneity calendar still right here in this parlor? Did you leave it behind and forget all about it?”

“I never leave anything to chance.”

“You pulled me into a random room,” she pointed out.

He smiled. “It was designed to look that way.”

The duke opened his journal and pointed at today’s entry, which read:

Miss Thorne will spontaneously arrive early.

Be ready with the grapes.

“It’s not veryspontaneous of me if it’s easily anticipated,” she grumbled, then read the list again. “‘Grapes?’”

Lambley gestured toward a long sideboard upon which a golden silk cloth covered a trio of odd-shaped mounds. With a flourish, he whisked the cloth away to reveal three impeccably polished silver-topped platters resting on trays filled with chopped ice.

He really had brought her into a room he’d specifically prepared in anticipation of her early visit.

“What grapes?” she asked again.

He lifted the first delicate silver lid to reveal a sprig of half a dozen dark purple grapes the size of blueberries.

“What a... feast,” she said faintly.

“I have surprised you.” He grinned with satisfaction. “These grapes aren’t properly meant to be consumed the way one might eat a normal grape, but we’re being spontaneous.”

“They’re not normal grapes?”

“They’re the best seasonal grapes from my three favorite vintners. I have searched all over for the best wines to serve at my gatherings and these vineyards produce the best of the best.” He lifted the other lids.

She gazed at equally small bunches of equally small grapes.

He lifted one. “It took a bit of finesse to procure these choice specimens, but no challenge is too daunting for spontaneity day. Today we shall enjoy artisan-crafted wine from Florence, Spain, and France, and sample the very grapes each varietal comes from.”

Of course he would casually unveil an assortment of grapes from his favorite wineries, which had shipped sprigs of fresh fruits to him from three different countries, just so Lambley could surprise Unity on Planned Spontaneity Day.

It was extravagant and foolish and adorable.

“All right,” she said. “Tell me about your grapes and your wines.”

He uncovered a fourth platter farther down the sideboard to reveal a dish piled high with nuts, seeds, and bite-sized cheeses of all varieties. Quickly, he arranged a sampling—“to adjust the palate”—and placed it on a small round table between two armchairs.

Next, he arranged not two, but six crystal goblets. He uncorked three different bottles and poured an inch of wine into each of the glasses.

“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “Whichever wines you like best, you can have more of.”

“I wasn’t worried,” she managed.

Lambley was many things, but stingy was not one of them.

In short order, he was seated beside her, explaining what kind of soil was best for each grape, and warning her that the skins were thicker, and the interiors riddled with seeds, but the flesh would be sweeter than the sort of grapes she was used to.

She placed one in her mouth carefully and bit down. The grape exploded with sweetness, tempered by the bitterness of its crunchy seeds and its oddly chewy skin.

“What do you think?” he asked.

She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know yet.”

He laughed. “They’re not meant to be eaten, really. They’re meant to be drunk. See if you like this better.”

Lambley handed her a goblet.

She swirled the wine and tried to admire its movement knowingly, as though she had any idea what anyone divined from the liquid streaks forming on their glasses.

“I have no idea what I’m looking at,” she said at last.

While he explained, she ate a few nuts and a piece of cheese, then clinked her glass with his and brought the wine to her lips.

It was delicious. Abominably delicious.

She had absolutely no doubt he had taken it upon himself to sample every wine on the Continent, because surely there could not be one better than this. It was oaky and fruity, dry and smooth.

“Well?” he prompted.

“It’s the best wine I’ve ever tasted,” she admitted.

His boyish grin lit the room. “Just wait until you try the others, Miss Thorne.”

“I think you’ve earned the right to call me Unity,” she said with a laugh. “If I drink all this wine, I’ll be singing sea-songs without the least hint of proper comportment.”

“Unity,” he repeated softly, then leaned back, his eyes hooded as he considered her.

Her cheeks burned. “Don’t worry, you needn’t share your—”

“Julian,” he answered. “To be used only in private. I cannot allow others to suspect I’m a human with a Christian name.”

He was teasing her. The Duke of Lambley—er, Julian—was well aware of his haughty reputation, but of course he must also have friends.

And was treating her like one of them.

“Now,” he said. “This next grape...”

She questioned him on every detail, doing her best to commit every nuance about this evening to memory. The sweetness of the grapes, the savory nuts and cheeses, the crunchy bitterness of the seeds.

But most of all, she wanted to remember how this moment felt. The Duke of Lambley, patient and teasing, charmingly delighted every time a grape or a wine pleased her.

It almost felt as though... he were wooing her.

Which could not be.

She was temporary. He had been clear. She had been clear. He was in the market for a very specific bride, and if this interlude proved anything, it was that Unity could not be less suited for the role. There was no sense pretending otherwise.

He was a duke. A baroness would be beneath him. The thought of wedding a textiles heiress, laughable. Unity was not even that lofty. She was neither titled nor rich nor a pale English rose or any of the other requirements on his list.

A list he no doubt possessed.

Any man as exacting as Julian, a duke who accepted nothing less than the absolute best in everything he touched, ate, acquired, or otherwise, likely possessed a list of bridal requirements so precise, only one woman in all the world could possibly fill the role.

And it wasn’t Unity.

Courting her would be more scandalous than hosting his lavish weekly bacchanalia. Invitations would cease, out of fear he’d bring his low-born Black wife along. Memberships, dropped. His life, irrevocably curtailed.

Not just his. He’d said his primary concern was to provide the best path for his privileged, proper heirs, who would be welcomed by the ton and find happiness amongst their peers. A noble, understandable, worthy desire for one’s children.

And something Unity could not offer.

She set down her wine. That was enough pretending to be courted. She was not here for him. Unity was here to learn all she could about hosting successful, popular masquerades that kept people coming back for more. She should worry about her future, not Lambley’s.

“How did you advertise your parties?” she asked. “I cannot imagine you sending an invitation to every name in the peerage.”

His lips twitched. “Hardly. My little soirées started on a much smaller scale than what you see now. I had to know the person would not only covet the opportunity but also follow the rules before I sent an invitation.”

Of course he would have rules. And assess each person individually to determine their suitability.

“What if I had a friend I’d like to bring to the party?” she asked.

“Do you?” He arched a brow. “Bring her. Or him.”

Her mouth fell open. “You would let me invite some stranger, sight unseen? Your Grace, the Duke of Controlling Every Detail?”

“Either I trust your judgment, or I don’t,” he replied. “I do. Why else would I be experimenting with the lists of ideas you force upon me?”

She stared at him. “You’re taking my advice?”

“Only a fool believes himself the only one capable of good judgment. My balls are as crowded as they are, because every friend I extend a personal invitation to also has friends. And those friends have friends, and so on. Everyone knows their invitation hinges on respecting other guests’ anonymity and autonomy.”

She nodded. “No pressuring anyone to do anything they don’t wish, from going upstairs to dancing a minuet. And no sharing names.”

He inclined his head. “If the friend of a friend should prove untrustworthy, then so is the person who recommended them, both of whom are immediately removed from the premises.”

“Permanent expulsion, all the way down the line.” She pantomimed a shudder. “With that threat hanging over them, I doubt many would risk recommending someone whose character they weren’t absolutely sure of.”

“I’ve only had to remove a guest once.” Julian’s expression hardened. “He was in his cups, but intoxication is not an acceptable excuse.”

“I’m guessing there’s no acceptable reason to break one of your rules?”

“There is no excuse for not being in complete control of one’s self,” he replied, his eyes and tone gone dark.

She tried to lighten the mood. “Certainly children—”

“—are not exempt,” he snapped. “Nor am I.”

She swallowed. Whatever this was, it was personal. “Did something happen?”