Lady Wicked

Lady Wicked
Copyright: Sabrina Vance
Published: November 2011

Lady Wicked

The right of Sabrina Vance to be identified
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Also by Sabrina Vance:

Anything She Wants
Her Very Personal Assistant

Chapter One

London, 1816

Amelia fingered the stiff card of the
invitation, smiling. Lord Hamilton’s Masquerade ball was the
highlight of the social calendar with only a select slice of
society invited. She had been on the guest list the past two years
but even then she didn’t know what to expect.

This year Lord Hamilton had promised the most
exquisite, most exciting evening his guests could possibly have.
That, of course, was not hard to believe. The finest wines flowed
at each one of the handsome Lord’s parties; there was the best in
entertainment, and the most delicious food. Society would gossip
about the ball for weeks beforehand, clamouring for a rare
invitation. Of course, the gossip would continue for weeks after
too, in hushed voices by the favoured few who had been there, and
repeated and embellished by the fevered imaginations of those who
had not.

Amelia had been somewhat surprised the first
year she had been invited to the Masquerade. She had kept a low
profile as befitted a single young woman of that time. Though
without family, she had considerable funds. It was that which
enabled her to enter society graciously, without making any great
waves. That had been her intention. Already, she was considered a
great beauty, but one with pleasant manners, good breeding and that
crucial several thousand a year.

Her past was something of a secret. Through
the rumour mill Amelia had seeded her own tragic background: rich
parents who had died on the continent and left their beloved
daughter everything. It wasn’t too far from the truth. Well, only
by a few hundred years, and who was counting?

Everything Amelia did was designed to not
draw attention to her, so that when the time came that she had to
move on, she would do so quietly, without fanfare, enabling her to
re-invent herself in some new city, moving on again when her lack
of aging would point her out as something other.

Lately, she had been thinking the New World
of would be where she would settle next, once the early pioneers
had done the hard work. America sounded like a terrifically
exciting place after her years travelling through Europe.

Living quietly was dull, but necessary, and
it was part of what made her love the Masquerade so much. Some
would call what happened on Hamilton’s estate, beyond the long
driveway and the closed doors of his mansion, debauched. Amelia
considered it the most freeing night of her life, the only time
when a nineteenth century woman could be truly free, without
repercussions.

The beauty of the Masquerade was the masks
that Hamilton insisted all the guests wore. It was a given that
each mask would be beautifully crafted, paired with the finest
costumes that would ensure every guest was a true enigma. They were
encouraged, nay, it was demanded, that they become a different
persona that night, and allow that persona to do what they liked…
to whomever they liked.

So on one night a year, Amelia became Lady
Wicked.

Reaching for the costume laid across her bed,
Amelia fingered the fine material of her costume. The silk had been
sent from Paris, created into the exquisite dress by her favourite
London dressmaker who had sewn delicate bands of lace around the
low cut neck, adding ribbons to the neat capped sleeves. Dispensing
with society’s rules on colours, Amelia had selected a deep
midnight blue, with gloves to match.

The most important piece of her costume,
however, was her mask. It was a delicate gold, perfectly fitted to
mask her upper face and trimmed in black brocade with jewels
pressed to the edges. She would wear it with a ribbon, tied it over
her long near-black hair. Compared to the feathers, lace, filigree
metals and grotesque casts, her mask would be a simple thing but it
was exactly what she wanted. It was just enough to fit the rules,
enough to blend in without attracting too much attention from the
other revelers.

Her mind drifted to what Lord Hamilton would
wear. The first year she had attended, she had thought he was the
man in the peacock feathers, then the man in lion face, and others.
It had occurred to her in the second year, that he simply changed
costumes throughout the evening to ensure that his guests were
never entirely certain which man he was. Perhaps he switched
costumes with his brother too. They were a similar build so it
would add to the confusion.

And that was all part of the fun. If no one
knew who they were, the guests could do almost anything they liked,
to anyone they liked, behind closed doors where there were so many
secrets that no one would dare reveal what went on. It was a
self-perpetuating secrecy act. No one would confess because no one
wanted to be shunned… and everyone loved the illicit nature of
their partying.

As Lady Wicked, Amelia would play her part.
She would eat, drink and make merry. And if she saw someone she
chose to know a little more intimately, there would be no society
rules telling her she could not be forward. She had seen many
intriguing, lurid, things at Hamilton’s Masquerades. She couldn’t
help wonder how often the handsome and enigmatic Hamilton brothers
participated. Perhaps, she mused, this would be the night she would
take one to her bed, providing she could identify him.

A knock at the door made Amelia start.
“M’lady?” called her maid, a young, solid-looking girl called Beth.
“Your carriage will arrive in one hour. May I help you dress?”

“No, Beth. Return in a ten minutes to attend
to my hair.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

Amelia listened for obedient Beth’s footsteps
fade away before she approached the bed. Stripping her simple blue
day dress and undergarments, she laid them over the velvet chair,
changing into her specially commissioned evening petticoats. The
silk gown slipped over her body easily. Cut low on the bosom as was
the fashion and skimming over her hips, it was demure and elegant
but still whispered expensive.

Opening an exquisitely decorated box, Amelia
fingered the jewels she’d collected over the years. Rubies,
emeralds, pearls… ah, these were the ones she wanted. A glittering
diamond necklace and matching drop earrings would be her only
adornments other than the mask. They were far too precious for
general wear, but the Masquerade was far from general. Hamilton
expected the best, and he was going to get it.

The senior Hamilton brother was a fixture at
various functions Amelia attended but he’d barely spoken to her
over the few years she had lived in London. She often found him
looking at her intently, his piercing blue eyes seeming to bore
into her very soul. His dark hair was cut in waves, but that was
the only gentle thing about him. Everything else about him spoke of
raw masculinity, from his square jaw to the powerful set of his
shoulders.

His brother was like a copy punched from the
same mould, with similar brooding eyes and commanding body, but he
seemed more outgoing than the older, brooding Hamilton. She had
even spoken with the younger Hamilton a few times and found he had
a quick humour that made him enjoyable to verbally spar with. She
found them both strangely captivating and they made her heart race
whenever she was fortunate to catch a glimpse of either. It was
strange; she hadn’t been this attracted to any man in decades,
never mind two.

Trying to glean information about the
brothers was a different matter entirely. Everyone seemed to have a
slightly different tale to tell about the brothers, and Amelia had
soon given up trying to fathom what was truth and what was rumour.
It was almost like they didn’t want anyone to know their true
selves. She knew the feeling.

When the maid knocked again, Amelia admitted
her and waited patiently while Beth’s nimble fingers wound their
way through her air, creating pretty curls that would hang down her
back, long and loose in defiance against current styles which
favoured short curls and buns.

By the time the carriage arrived, Amelia was
tapping her silk slipper on the parlour floor, black velvet cloak
tied about her shoulders, the mask concealed in her reticule. That
was another instruction of Hamilton’s. No guest would reveal their
mask until they were in the confines of the carriage, away from
public view. Even Beth hadn’t seen it. It was just another measure
of how tightly Hamilton held the privacy of his guests. Scandal
could wreck lives, and Amelia preferred to move on only when she
was ready. Not when someone else decided for her. She hoped that
one day, society would move on from such scandal.

The Hamiltons’ estate was a twenty minute
ride through the bustling streets. Amelia kept herself concealed in
the dark recesses of the carriage counting down the minutes until
she heard the call of the gatekeeper. Only then did she peek
through the curtained window, breathing deeply. The Hamilton’s
house sprawled in the distance, torches flaming as carriages
circled. Her heart pounded in anticipation.

Fiddling with the ribbons of the mask, she
placed it carefully over her face, adjusting it until it was
comfortable then tied it firmly in a knot, then a bow with trailing
ends over her long curls. As the carriage rolled up the long
driveway, she checked her reflection in the window and Lady Wicked
smiled back.

The masquerade was about to begin.

Chapter Two

Lord Jeremy Hamilton paced the length of his
library while his brother reclined in a larger leather chair and
looked on in amusement. Finally Jeremy stopped, swiveled on his
heel and aimed for the decanter of whiskey, pouring himself three
stiff fingers.

“She’ll come,” said James, leaning forward to
reach for his own tumbler.

“She’s late,” was Jeremy’s curt answer. “Why
are women always late? They’ve had centuries to learn how to be on
time.”

“Not every woman has had centuries to learn,”
James chastised his brother. “Besides, I believe it is called
‘fashionably late’. No woman wants to be seen as so eager that she
is first to the party.”

Jeremy tossed the amber liquid back and
resumed his pacing. “She’s not the first. There were four and
twenty at my last count.”

“She came to the last two Masquerades,
brother. She will attend this one. Intrigue will call to her.”

“Maybe I should have called on her?”

“Maybe I should have,” echoed James, a
teasing glint in his eye.

Jeremy lurched to a halt, staring at his
brother with brooding eyes that made ladies swoon. After several
hundred years, they still didn’t do a damned thing for James.

“I saw her first.” Jeremy’s voice was loaded
with possession.

“She’s not a toy, brother.”