Lord of the Masquerade by Erica Ridley

Chapter 8

Julian prowled through his crowded ballroom. He had not seen Miss Thorne since last Saturday—which was good; it meant following instructions, he had told her she was not allowed to arrive early, no exceptions.

Except it was now half past eleven and she wasn’t here at all.

He had expected her to present herself to the night butler at five minutes to ten. Not early enough to be objectionable, but early enough to be the first through the door when the clock struck the hour.

The first through the door were a Lord and Lady X who could not be mistaken for Miss Thorne under any circumstances.

Next was a Lord X, and then another Lord and Lady X. Try as Julian might to keep half his attention on the constantly opening door, he had never given only half of his attention to his duties as host. He was needed here for this, and there for that, and the next thing he knew, his ballroom was as full as a bucket of sand, and about as easy to walk through.

Perhaps he’d frightened Miss Thorne off.

That was good, wasn’t it? Julian did not try to be frightening, though he knew he could have that effect on certain temperaments. He would not have thought Miss Thorne to be of the swooning sort, but truly he should not be thinking of her at all. He had a party to oversee, a kingdom over which to reign, a plan underway.

The reason his ballroom was stuffed as full as the Royal Ascot with Prinny in attendance, was because his call to arms had worked. The mantel in the lavender parlor overflowed with invitations from the mothers of hopeful debutantes, each one the perfect picture of propriety.

As for Julian’s ballroom... Half of the guests were people who wanted to squeeze every bit of fun out of the parties before they came to an end. The other half included significantly less respectable hopefuls convinced the Duke of Lambley would never give up his masquerades for a wife—and that they were the perfect candidate for the position.

Now that Miss Thorne had put into Julian’s head that he could find a woman who was outwardly virtuous and secretly a vixen, he could settle for nothing less. Indeed, he had spent the past week carefully contemplating each of his past female guests.

First, he struck the married ones from his mental list, leaving him with half the original quantity of names. Next to go were all the women who weren’t ladies. He liked them just as well, but he wasn’t choosing a bride to suit himself. He was selecting the perfect duchess.

Which could be done. He had created the perfect masquerade, had he not?

Yes, it had taken several seasons to refine and refine again, until every glittering evening was a masterpiece. But a wife was not nearly so complicated. Besides, young ladies of the ton had trained for such roles from the moment they left the nursery.

And that was another thing to consider. Young ladies. Julian wasn’t young, and had no particular interest in leg-shackling himself to some chit barely out of the schoolroom. No debutantes, then. Better yet—no one who had debuted in the past two years. Which struck several dozen more names from the list.

He could not settle for a spinster, of course. Not because of her age—the more years of life a person lived, the more interesting he or she became.

Spinsters were not to be touched for two different reasons. First, if a lady truly were perfect duchess material, some other lord would have snapped her up before she was in any danger of moldering forgotten on the shelf. And second, a perfect duchess by definition could not be some luckless unwanted wallflower, even if the loss truly was Julian’s.

And third, his future heirs. He needed someone with plenty of childbearing years yet.

No spinsters and no debutantes left him with an extremely curtailed list. Julian adored extremely curtailed lists. For any conundrum, there was always a right answer. One right answer. One perfect duchess. The more he trimmed the list, the better.

He had thought he liked blondes well enough, but for some reason the thought did not inspire, so he struck those names from his mental list. Same for those with ghostly pale countenances. Yes, yes, porcelain white skin was perennially à la mode, but a chit too rigid to set down her parasol for a moment would not survive a day under this roof with Julian.

Which also meant, she must be nice, but not too nice, polite but not obsequious, tough enough to weather the judgments of women like the patronesses and the old dragon Lady Pettibone, but not so prickly as to invite censure upon herself or her children. Someone who—

“Is it true?” asked a skeptical voice. “Can the scandalous Duke of Lambley possibly have voluntarily stepped foot into the marriage mart?”

Julian gave his haughtiest, most forbidding stare to his good friends Lord X and Lord X—known outside these walls as the unwed Duke of Courteland, as well as Heath Grenville, a future baron.

“No one has ever succeeded in forcing me to do something against my will,” Julian said repressively.

Grenville chortled with laughter. “If I had any doubts upon the matter, that little speech would have put them to rest. By taking issue with a single word instead of answering the question, Lambley has shown his cards. I’m afraid our dear reprobate has indeed entered the marriage mart, my friend.”

“Devil take you,” Courteland said morosely. “I might have had a chance as the sole unmarried duke actively in search of a bride if you had stayed out of the way just a few months more.”

“I am an attractive man,” Julian said with false modesty.

The Duke of Courteland snorted. “No one cares about your handsome face. They want your title, your gold, your vast estate—”

“Trust me,” Grenville said wryly. “A high percentage of the ladies in this very room are passionately interested in Lambley’s handsome face. I am glad to already be married. If you knew half the things I’ve overheard women whisper about His Grace, the Duke of Masquerades...”

Julian was no longer attending.

He had just caught sight of a slender neck that absolutely, positively must belong to Miss Thorne. There were too many milling people for him to glimpse the rest of her body, and the distance stretching between them made it hard to determine the exact golden-brown of her skin, but he was certain—

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.” Julian strode away from his friends without a word of explanation or a glance at their expressions.

There was no time.

The woman who probably, definitely, was the missing Miss Thorne was gliding toward the opposite side of the ballroom, drawing farther from Julian by the second. Already she had caught the eye of a dozen different men, all of whom started at once in her direction. If Julian did not make sufficient haste, one of them would beat him to her side and whisk her out of reach onto the dance floor.

He did not like being curt to guests, but tonight it seemed as though they were conspiring against him by putting themselves in his path to enquire or comment or compliment or—who even knew? He gave each of them a nod and promised to find them later when he was not so incredibly busy.

And then there she was.

Her attire tonight was Elizabethan. Tall red wig, low square-necked bodice, improbably small waist, impossibly wide hips, all draped in crimson velvet with white and gold taffeta. She had never looked so arresting. She—

Was not Miss Thorne. She had just turned, and in her profile—a profile that looked almost exactly like Miss Thorne’s, Julian would swear to it—he could now see that the little black mole was missing from her face. It was not slathered in cosmetics or replaced by a scar. It was as though it had never existed.

Her cheekbones were different, too. He could not see them fully because of the crimson mask covering the top half of her face, but they seemed sharper tonight, as though this woman weighed a full stone lighter than curvy Miss Thorne. Even her nose seemed thinner, and the bodice of her gown fit differently.

Did she have a sister? A twin? Was that what was happening?

One of the other young bucks reached her first.

Julian had stopped moving. This was not his prey. The young buck said something that was clearly inappropriate, and the woman who was not Miss Thorne laughed—

Exactly like Miss Thorne.

He cut between the two within the space of a breath and pulled her into his side. “It is you.”

“I... You...” She stared up at him. “How did you know?”

Miss Thorne looked shocked that he’d figured her out.

Julian was shocked he’d doubted himself at all, even for a moment.

“What happened to your mole?” he demanded.

“I never had one,” she admitted. “It was putty, colored to look like a beauty spot. Am I ugly without it?”

He ignored her teasing question and frowned. Clearly it had not been a real mole. The evidence was right in front of him. But why would she have been wearing a disguise before she’d been invited to her first masquerade?

“And your bodice?” he growled.

“Of course you’d notice that.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I had to bind my bosom somewhat in order to fit into this gown.”

All the rest of Julian’s questions vanished from his mind. All that filled him now was the intense desire to be the one to unbind those plump breasts, to feel them spill into his waiting palms so that he could bring her pleasure.

“Er,” said the young man who had been cut aside when Julian swooped in. “Is this an inopportune time to ask for a dance?”

Julian gave him a look so withering, it was a wonder the lad did not shrivel into a tiny speck on the spot.

“Perhaps later,” the lad blurted, and scurried away without looking back.

“That was unkind,” Miss Thorne chided Julian.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Did someone tell you I was kind?”

“Several people,” she replied. “You really must work on keeping your bad reputation.”

He glared at her.

She grinned at him.

“I’ll have you know,” he began, his tone frosty.

“Don’t worry.” She patted his arm consolingly. “They can think you generous and be terrified of you at the same time.”

What were they talking about? Julian’s ears had stopped working. And his brain. And possibly his lungs. All he could think about was her hand on his arm.

She was touching him. Surely it would be churlish not to touch her in return. He might start by flinging her extravagant red wig aside to reveal her natural glossy black curls. He wanted to feel one of those soft ringlets looped about his finger, and assure himself it was not he who was becoming wound around her pinkie—

Miss Thorne took her hand away.

Good. Good. He was glad for the loss.

It was ridiculous to miss her touch already. Perhaps it was not her causing this effect, but rather the simple fact of being at one of his masquerades. Heaven knew the people upstairs were engaged in far more sensual pursuits than a gentle touch upon the arm. It was the crowd’s giddy comportment that clouded his emotions. He didn’t even have emotions. He’d got rid of them years ago. This reaction was sexual, and nothing more.

He would not indulge it. He controlled his body, not the other way around.

“Come upstairs with me,” he commanded.

It should have sounded like a command. It did sound like a command. Sort of. A command, but also a husky, rasping plea. It would not do at all.

He cleared his throat and found his harsh, imperial tone. “Come with me.”

She arched her brows. “Upstairs, Your Grace? To the rooms dedicated to unspeakable acts of pleasure? Is this to be a… business tour?”

It occurred to Julian that he did not know if she referred to the business of managing a masquerade or to her trade as a courtesan... and in his current uncomfortable state, he did not dare to ask.

He had to gain control of the situation—and himself.

“Not like that,” he said gruffly. “We can save... tours... for another day. I want to show you something.”

This explanation clearly did not alter her perception of the invitation, but she hooked her hand through his. “I am yours to command, my lord.”

He doubted that very much.

And wanted it very much.

He led her up the staircase, but only as far as the small marble landing halfway up to the top floor. He turned her to face the crowd.

“This is the best vantage point in the ballroom.”

She looked skeptical. “Better than the promenade above us?”

“It’s too far away,” he explained. “Up there, you can see the ballroom from any angle, but it is more difficult to see faces. The view is obstructed by all the chandeliers. From here, I can see everyone, and they can see me.”

“I’ve never heard ‘all the chandeliers’ as a negative trait before,” Miss Thorne murmured. But she placed her gloved hands on the polished balustrade and gazed out over his kingdom.

He watched her in silence.

“This is your theatre box to the performance below?” she asked.

“Not quite.”

The crowd caught them watching.

“To Lambley!” cheered a Lord X, thrusting his glass of champagne up high.

The rest of the crowd did the same. “To Lambley!”

“Ah, of course.” Miss Thorne angled her gaze toward Julian. “This is the king’s throne, and they your loyal subjects.”

He did not deny it.

“But...” Her frown was hidden behind her mask, but he could hear it in her voice. “Why share your pedestal with me?”

“Any guest is welcome to climb or descend these stairs, and pause wherever they wish,” he pointed out. “But you wanted to know why I do what I do. Why I care about every detail you see before you—and all of the other details that no one sees but me.”

“So that masked revelers will drink to your health?”

“They wouldn’t do so if they weren’t enjoying themselves.” His lips twitched. “Have you ever seen such a spontaneous expression of joy at Almack’s?”

“I’m not allowed in Almack’s,” she replied blandly. “Except perhaps to clean the chamber pots.”

Oof. It had been the wrong thing to say. Very wrong. Those patronesses wouldn’t welcome her. They would act as though they couldn’t see her. He shifted awkwardly.

Miss Thorne was not looking at him, and he was glad of it. Julian was not the sort to blush, but he was also not the sort to stick his foot so firmly into his mouth.

“I take your point,” she said, rescuing him. “I’ve seen enough penny caricatures to know the only refreshments are weak ratafia and stale sandwiches, presided over by self-important goddesses who judge their peers more harshly than Saturn devouring his children.”

Julian blinked at the esoteric reference to Roman mythology.

“People attend Almack’s because they have to,” Miss Thorne continued. “It’s a means to an end. A way to secure their future. Whereas your guests come to your parties because they wish to. It is the end they’re searching for. A chance to forget the future and live in this moment, in this night.”

“That’s exactly it,” he said. “And more eloquent than I would have phrased it.”

“Doubtful,” she said. “You’ve spent hours standing right here, gazing out over the world you created. Here, you’re not a king, but a deity. No doubt your mind has composed and polished the exact way it feels until each word is perfect, as sharp as the edges of your sandwiches and as colorful as the cornucopias spilling forth below.”

To this, he did not respond. He was thinking perhaps it was Miss Thorne who was sharper and more colorful than previously expected.

“Or perhaps,” she said, “you brought me up here to show me that it is your world below. Not mine. That my services are not only unwelcome, they’re as superfluous as I am. That you’ve already achieved perfection and want for nothing.”

“You’re not superfluous,” he murmured.

“But the rest is true?” Her voice was amused.

He considered her. “You’re unfashionably direct.”

“And you’re unfashionably honest and surprisingly self-aware, for a peer.” She tilted her head. “I expected you to deny my charge, or to throw me out for my impertinence.”

“Then why risk saying it?”

“Because I’m unfashionably direct,” she admitted, her eyes twinkling.

“And surprisingly honest and self-aware,” he added dryly.

“See?” She pretended to place a crown atop her head. “We’ve so much in common, we’re practically indistinguishable.”

“I’m not as pretty in a dress.”

“Am I pretty?”

“You know you are.”

“I know I am to some people,” she corrected. “And you know I am not pleasing to all.”

“I suspect you’re beautiful to anyone who has ever seen you,” he said. “Whether they can put up with your pert mouth and your impudent tongue, on the other hand—”

“Hurry it along, Lambley!” called one of the revelers. “I’ve got ten quid on you kissing her before midnight, not jawing the poor girl to sleep!”

Miss Thorne looked startled. “They’re not... really wagering on...”

Julian could not allow his revelers to see him treating Miss Thorne differently than any other woman. They might think it meant she affected him in some way. That she threw him off balance. Julian was never off balance. He was in control of himself and this moment, and would give his guests the performance they expected and desired.

“I don’t jaw,” Julian informed his audience coldly. “I am a man of few words... and stealing high-stakes kisses.”

He pulled Miss Thorne into his arms.

“What are you doing?” she stammered. But she did not resist. Her hands on his upper arms clutched him tight, rather than pull away.

“Pleasing the crowd.” He lowered his lips to a mere breath above hers. “May I kiss you, Lady X, for the sake of theatre?”

“Only for theatre’s sake,” she repeated, the words breathless. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking I—”

He covered her mouth with his.

Her tongue found his at once. His hands followed the curve of her spine to the small of her back and pressed her closer to him. Her hands twisted in his hair, destroying his perfectly starched high collar. He had never cared less about being fashionable than in that moment.

The crowd cheered. Glasses clinked. The wager was won.

Julian did not pull his lips from Miss Thorne’s. He could barely hear the crowd over the thundering of his heart. All he could feel was satin over soft curves. Bound curves that he wished to unbind.

All he could smell was the faint almond-and-vanilla scent of her hair. All he could taste was the champagne on her tongue. All he wanted was to scoop her up into his arms and charge up the stairs to the closest bedchamber, whereupon he would finally find—

Control. He was out of control. His heart was beating wildly, his thoughts in disarray, and he had completely forgotten whatever point he’d thought he was trying to make.

He broke the kiss at once, snapping his spine to a kingly height in order to gaze coolly at the crowd.

“To Lambley and Lady X!” they cried, raising their bubbling champagne glasses high until the ballroom itself glittered like a chandelier.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Julian said, and descended his royal steps to melt into the crowd without risking any more kisses.

He wanted to stop. To turn and look at Miss Thorne. To run back up the steps and toss her over his shoulder without slowing until they were naked and sweating.

But he was in control, not his libido. Besides, Miss Thorne was not a duchess candidate. If she tempted him to forget himself, he should stay clear of casual dalliances as well.

Perhaps break all contact with her.

He strode toward Heath Grenville, drawing him aside. “I have a job for you.”

“Name it,” Grenville replied without hesitation.

The future baron was known throughout the ton as a solver of problems. He could not be taxed with the conundrum of Julian’s suddenly wavering self-control, but he could investigate another matter for him.

Julian kept his voice low. “Find out who she is.”

“Don’t you know?” Grenville answered in obvious surprise.

“I know her name,” Julian said. “The night butler will give it to you when you are out of range from eager ears.”

Grenville nodded. “Understood. What do you want me to find out?”

Julian pushed away all thoughts of the softness of her body, the heat of her kiss. He almost hadn’t recognized her tonight. Not because she was wearing an Elizabethan costume, but because she wasn’t wearing her usual disguise. Something was not right.

He found it difficult to trust others under the best of circumstances. He would not allow himself to be gammoned because of a pretty face.

“Start with whether that’s her real name,” he said. “And then find out everything you can. If she has an ulterior motive, I need to know it. If she has a secret, uncover it. I want to know everything.”

“I’ll need a little time.”

“You’ll be compensated handsomely for speed.”

“Very well.” Grenville inclined his head and disappeared into the night butler’s vestibule to speak to Fairfax.

Only then did Julian allow his gaze to travel back to the marble staircase.

She was gone.