How to Woo a Reluctant Lady (2 page)

She swallowed. “You promise that Mama and Papa won’t look like . . . how the paper said?”

“I swear it.” He made an
X
over his chest with appropriate solemnity. “Cross my heart and hope to die.” Rising, he offered her his hand. “Will you come with me?”

Though her heart pounded in her chest, she let him take her hand. And when he led her into the chapel, she found he hadn’t lied. Papa’s casket was closed. Though she knew what must lay inside, she pretended that Papa was as he’d always been.

It helped that Mama looked like a sleeping, dressed-up version of herself. But what helped the most was Giles keeping
hold of her hand. He clasped it throughout the service, even when Cousin Desmond’s bratty son, Ned, snickered. Every time she got scared or sad, she squeezed Giles’s hand, and he squeezed back to show that she wasn’t alone. Somehow that made everything tolerable. He didn’t release her hand until the caskets were in the ground and everyone was walking away.

That was the day she fell in love with Giles Masters.

London
1816

B
Y HER NINETEENTH
birthday, Minerva was still in love. She knew everything about Giles. He hadn’t married, hadn’t even courted anyone seriously. Like her brothers, he lived a rogue’s life. But unlike her brothers, he had a profession—he’d been called to the bar just last year. So surely if he was to rise as a barrister, his rogue’s life would have to end soon. Then he’d need a wife.

Why shouldn’t it be her? She was pretty enough—everyone said so. She was clever, too, which a man like him would surely appreciate. And he wouldn’t snub her for her family’s scandalous behavior, like the narrow-minded gentlemen she met in society now that she’d had her come-out. He’d been dealing with a scandal of his own ever since four months ago, when his father had killed himself. She and Giles had that in common.

But as she gazed about at her birthday party guests—none of whom were Giles, though he’d been invited—she felt a stab of disappointment. How could she get him to see her as anything but the younger sister of his friends, when she never saw him?

After the party was over, she went to the garden to soothe
her lowered spirits and overheard her brothers talking as they smoked cigars in the mews.

“The lads told me that the party at Newmarsh’s house starts at ten,” Oliver said. “I’ll meet you two out here around then. It’s close enough to walk, thank God, so we won’t have to mention it to the servants. You know how they are—they tell Gran everything, and she’ll lecture us about going off somewhere on Minerva’s birthday.”

“Gran’s bound to notice us slipping out wearing costumes,” Jarret said.

“We’ll come out one at a time to stash them in the garden until we can leave. Just be careful not to let Minerva see. No point in hurting her feelings.”

She was on the verge of giving them a piece of her mind for going to a party without her on her birthday, when it dawned on her. If they were attending a party with “the lads,” then Giles would be there! And since it was a masquerade, she could attend without anyone being the wiser. She knew exactly what to wear, too. She and her younger sister Celia had once come across a stash of Gran’s clothes from over thirty years ago—that would be perfect.

At nine, she slipped into the garden shed with fourteen-year-old Celia, who’d promised to help, in exchange for a full account of what Minerva saw at the ball. They fitted her into one of the old-style corsets and two modest panniers. Then she donned the elaborate gown of gold satin that Gran had worn to their parents’ wedding.

Giggling the whole time, they stuffed her light brown hair under a powdered wig piled high in white curls. Then they covered her face with a mask and attached a patch to one cheek. The final touch was an old-fashioned blue cameo of Gran’s.

“Do I look like Marie Antoinette?” Minerva asked, careful to keep her voice low. Her brothers hadn’t made an appearance in the garden yet, but she was taking no chances.

“You look
splendid,
” Celia whispered. “And very exotic.”

Exotic
was Celia’s new favorite word, though Minerva suspected that it actually meant “seductive.” The bodice
was
cut shamelessly low.

Then again, she
did
want to entice Giles. “Go on now,” she said to Celia. “Before they come down.”

Celia hurried out. Minerva then had to wait until after her brothers dressed in the gardens and headed off down the mews before she could follow them.

Fortunately lots of people were going the same way, so she merged with the crowd on the street once her brothers had entered the house. Though she didn’t have an invitation, it proved oddly easy to get inside. Finding Giles might be difficult, since she had to avoid her brothers, so she bribed the butler to tell her what costume her quarry was wearing.

“Mr. Masters isn’t here, love,” the servant said with shocking familiarity. “He declined the invitation on account of having to be in the country, seeing to his mother.”

She didn’t know whether to be glad that he’d not come to her party because of his other engagement, or disappointed that she wouldn’t get her chance with him.

“But if you’re seeking a protector,” the butler went on helpfully, “you ought to aim a bit higher. Mr. Masters is only a second son.”

A protector? Why on earth would she be seeking a protector?

That’s when she took a closer look at the assembly. In an instant, she realized this was no ordinary masquerade. Her “exotic” costume looked downright angelic compared to those of the other women.

Grecian gowns and Roman togas abounded, with slits in indecent places. There was a milkmaid with a gown cut lower than any real milkmaid would wear, and a woman who wore only feathers in strategic positions. Across the room, her brother Jarret danced with a Maid Marian who was no maid, his hand slipping down her back to rest on her—

Minerva turned away, blood heating her cheeks. Good Lord. This was a Cyprian’s Ball. She’d heard of such affairs, where women came to find protectors and men came to enjoy . . . the women. If anyone found her here, it would be disaster!

Before she could escape, a fellow dressed as a French courtier clasped her about the waist and hauled her up against him. “Well, if it isn’t the Queen of Queans!”

He laughed at his little jest, and she gaped at him. Had he just called her a
whore
?

To her disgust, he pressed his mouth to her ear and thrust his tongue inside. “Why don’t you come upstairs, sweet, so we can play our roles in private?”

Before she could stomp on his foot, she was jerked from him by another fellow, who said, “Bugger off, Lansing. I saw her first.” A knight in shining cloth draped an arm about her shoulders with a lascivious grin.

Lansing? Could that be the
Earl
of Lansing? Why, she knew his wife—a sweet young thing, though a trifle plump. He attended the same church as Gran, for pity’s sake!

“Come now, Hartley, give over,” Lansing said peevishly. “I’m dressed the part.”

Hartley must be the highly esteemed Viscount Hartley, whose own wife had a frosty beauty only matched by her frosty manner. Hartley and Lansing were grand friends. And Minerva had always assumed they were decent fellows, too . . . until now.

She was still reeling from the realization of their true characters when Lansing grabbed her arm.

“We could share her,” he said without an ounce of conscience. “Done it before.”

Share
her! As if she would go off willingly to a room with two drunken buffoons.

She wriggled free. “I beg your pardon, but I already have an assignation with Lord Stoneville.” Oliver outranked them both, so perhaps that would put them off.

But Hartley just chuckled and flicked his finger toward the far corner of the room. “Stoneville’s busy right now, dearie.”

Minerva glanced over to find her brother sprawled in a chair, watching a woman dressed as Cleopatra dancing to entice him. He was as bad as Jarret, for pity’s sake . . . as bad as these profligate lords.

Very well, she would teach him a lesson—and rid herself of these fools in the process. Planting her hands on her hips, she flashed him an exasperated look. “How dare that little weasel flirt with another woman after giving
me
the pox?”

That did it. Hartley and Lansing couldn’t flee her fast enough.

Freed of her pesky admirers, she threaded her way through the crowd, heading for the door. A wicked smile crossed her lips. She hoped word got around about Marie Antoinette’s “affliction” and who’d given it to her. It would serve Oliver right for consorting with such awful men.

The other guests were just as dreadful. As she went past kings and paupers, she heard things no maiden should ever hear, spoken in the familiar voices of men she knew. Some were young rascals like her brothers, sowing their wild oats, but several were married men. Good Lord, did all men have Papa’s roving eye?

No, not all men. Not Giles. The very fact that he’d chosen to comfort his mother rather than come here proved that he was already mending his rogue’s ways.

She finally pushed her way out of the room, then paused in the dark hall to gain her bearings. She didn’t want to stumble into any more trouble than she already had.

Suddenly a door at the end of the hall opened and a man dressed as a priest came toward her, carrying a candle. Blood pounding, she melted behind some curtains and prayed he hadn’t spotted her. The curtains weren’t thick—she could see him too plainly for comfort—but she didn’t think he could see her with the candle in his hand.

He paused nearby and cocked his head, as if listening. The light fell full on his profile . . . and on the mole below his ear.

She swallowed a gasp. She knew that profile only too well; she’d memorized every line of it. Giles
was
here. But what was he doing sneaking down the hall?

When he hurried into a nearby room, it came to her. He must be having an assignation with a tart! Curse him to hell, how could he? He was as bad as her brothers!

Unless she’d been mistaken. After all, the butler had
said
he wasn’t in attendance.

She slid out from behind the curtains. How could she leave without knowing for sure if Giles was here consorting with some doxy? Oh, she couldn’t bear it if he was, but she had to know.

Creeping down the hall, she came to the door he’d disappeared through, gathered her courage, and slipped inside. The man she’d followed was half-turned away from the door, too intent on rifling the desk to notice her silent entrance. Frozen, she watched as he methodically searched each drawer. If this was Giles, what on earth was he doing?

It certainly
looked
like Giles. He moved with the same subtle grace, the same leashed control, and his hair was the same wavy, walnut brown, from what she could see of it under his wide-brimmed hat. He pulled out a file, opened it, then held its contents closer to the candle. Cursing, he removed his mask to examine the papers better.

Her heart hammered in her chest. It
was
Giles. What was he up to? And why?

After thumbing through everything in the file, he shoved the entire thing under his priest’s robes, then quickly turned, and spotted her. Without missing a beat, he pasted a charming smile to his lips and casually slid his mask back into place. “I believe you’re lost, madam. The party is in the ballroom.”

She should have played dumb, but she just couldn’t. “If I’m lost, so are you, Giles Masters.”

He sucked in a breath. In a flash he was across the room, lifting the mask from her face. “Minerva? What the hell—”

“I’m the one who ought to be asking questions. What are you stealing? Why are you here? I thought you were in the country with your mother.”

His eyes glittered beneath the mask. “As far as anyone is concerned, I am.” He scanned her with a critical eye. “And how did you get an invitation to a party thrown by the likes of Newmarsh, anyway?”

When she fumbled for an explanation, he shook his head. “You snuck in, didn’t you? And it was just my rotten luck that you found
me.
”

That really hurt. “I wasn’t trying to find you,” she lied. “I merely came here on a lark after I heard my brothers talking about it. I happened to see you, and—”

“Your curiosity got the better of your good sense.” He gripped both her arms, as if to shake her. “Bloody little fool—
what if I’d been some unscrupulous fellow who might stick a knife between your ribs for your meddling?”

“How do I know you aren’t?” she snapped, annoyed at being called a fool. “You still haven’t said why you’re stealing.”

“It’s none of your concern, Miss Nosy Britches.”

“Oh, for goodness sake, don’t treat me like a child. I’m not nine anymore.”

“Could have fooled me,” he muttered as he tugged her mask back into place and propelled her toward the door. “I would leave you to the tender mercies of your brothers, but no one must know I’m here. And I daresay you don’t want anyone to know
you’re
here, either. So I’m taking you home before you get into more trouble.”

She would have given him a blistering retort, except that they were now in the hallway, too near the ballroom to risk it. Besides, at the moment they had the same goal—to escape without being unmasked. But once he got her out of here, she would give him a piece of her mind. Miss Nosy Britches, indeed. And he hadn’t even noticed her costume! Was he always going to see her as a little girl?

He led her through a dizzying warren of rooms and halls, which made her realize he’d been here before, probably for one of these parties. Unless he made a habit of stealing things? No, there must be a good explanation for that.

But he gave her no chance to ask. As soon as he got them outside and into the mews where they wouldn’t be seen, he tore off his mask. “Who the hell are you supposed to be, anyway?”

“Marie Antoinette.”

“Good God. Do you realize what could have happened if anyone had recognized you?” With purposeful steps, he hurried her down the lane toward Gran’s town house. “It
would have been the end of your future. After being discovered at one of Newmarsh’s affairs, the scandal would have destroyed your reputation for good. No decent man would marry—”