Love, Unmasked (2 page)

Fidelity’s nerve gave out at the first flash of brilliant blue silk in her boudoir’s candlelight.
What was I thinking?

“No, Mary, not that one. The—” She paused, near-panic setting her heart pounding and no backup plan ready. “The evening primrose lutestring instead.”

Her lady’s maid hesitated at the wardrobe’s door. The blue silk in her arms shimmered in the candlelight, hints of gold flickering along the neckline. “The lutestring, miss? I thought—”

“Yes, I know.”
You too, huh?
“The lutestring’s so much more suitable, don’t you think?”

Mary studied her but carefully didn’t roll her eyes. “If you say so, miss.” She turned back to the wardrobe. The blue silk vanished inside.

It’s for the best. Really.

The deep yellow satin glowed like a torch as Mary laid it out on the bed. Fidelity had splurged on the material and on the delicate lace trim, on the seamstress and the matching slippers. It was a good color for her, emphasizing her golden brown hair and setting off her blue eyes.

And I wore it all last season. Everyone in the West End knows that gown and they’ll know me in it. Wasn’t the point of this one final evening in town to be someone else, ju
st for the night? To break free and make some lovely, atrocious memories to last the rest of my lonely life?

Her thoughts roiled while Mary drew the silver-backed brush through her hair. Yes, that was resentment she felt, and it hadn’t quit squeezing her chest since Grey’s gallop away. Not that she particularly wished to emulate his riding, nor have a go at the races. But somewhere along her life’s pathway she’d put aside the delightfully fun antics, the ones Georgette and Jessica flaunted so shamelessly, and instead she’d drawn on a mask of serene gentility, of good manners and good sense and great dullness. No wonder Mr. Brightenburg paid her no attention; she interested him less than a well-trained horse or hound.

Everyone said a sweet temperament and proper decorum were
de rigueur
for catching a husband. Emphasis on
husband
. If that word was removed from the equation… If less attention were paid to permanence, more to the singular experience… If she knew her behavior would never be attributed to her…

Well, she could wriggle as sensuously as Georgette and have just as much fun in the process. By putting on a physical mask for one evening, she could remove the invisible one she’d worn for so long.

For three years she’d observed Sylvestre Brightenburg. He danced with most of the debutantes, some of the young gentlewomen, and very few of the spinsters over twenty-one, meaning her peers. Those he did notice were all wealthy and beautiful, and those who held his attention the longest all wore evocative gowns.

Hence her investment in blue silk and a Kentish needlewoman never patronized by her set. If anyone attempted to track down her masked self, it wouldn’t be through her seamstress.

And then afterward she could retire to Kent, virtue perhaps bereft, hopes faded to rags — but with memories to sustain her. At the thought, her heart pounded even harder.

Mary swirled her mane into a loose twist on the back of her head, the same way she always did. It was a lovely hairstyle, well suited to her face, and yet…

Fidelity fidgeted. “Let’s do something different tonight, Mary.”

The maid paused. “With your hair, miss?” She let the strands fall through her fingers, and they collapsed into a luxuriant golden mass on Fidelity’s shoulder. “What do you have in mind?”

“I don’t know,” Fidelity admitted. She sighed. “But something different. Remember the afternoon when we played with different hairstyles? What was the one you liked so much?”

Mary’s face lit up. She separated out a lock on each side of Fidelity’s face, then combed the rest of her hair up the back of her head to the top, wrapped it around itself in layered waves, and pinned it into place. The remaining locks she braided on each side, leaving a few curly strands brushing her cheeks, weaving the plaits with thin blue and yellow ribbons and pinning them into a halo that framed her face.

“There, miss. That will look divine with your mask.” Mary leaned over Fidelity’s shoulder and whispered into her ear. “It would look even diviner with that blue gown, too.”

Fidelity shot her a look, but Mary’s chin was set; she meant what she’d said. And really, the hairstyle was so different from her norm. If she wore her plainest jewelry, say tiny gold studs like those everyone owned and a simple gold chain…

“I’m right. And you know it.” Mary scooped the mask from the dressing table and held it in place.

It covered all of her face, rather than just her eyes, curving around her jaw line and up her forehead to where the pinned braid provided a natural boundary. The blue silk covering looked like midnight in the flickering candlelight, and the gold trim and white pearls glinted. It was beautiful. And more than that, it changed her, the width of her face, the angle of her chin, the set of her eyes; a stranger looked back at her from the glass.

The blue silk would complete the transformation, she knew. She’d never owned a gown like it, never anything so daring, and so no one would recognize her, not even her closest friends, not even Clarissa. Its lines accented hers, designed to draw a man’s eyes — designed to draw Brightenburg’s.

Decision time. Did she dare?

Mary shrugged, too casual by half. “I sp’ose you could always give that gown to the Miss Alcocks. If’n you’re not going to wear it, I mean.”

In the glass, the stranger’s eyes flashed. Oh, yes, those two would be delighted to wear her gown. And they’d get into serious trouble with some rake or other the moment one of them wore it onto the street; they’d no more discretion or discernment than that well-trained hound she’d compared herself to earlier, and that was slandering the hound—

—and if she carried out her plan, then she was no better—

Face it, m’girl. You just don’t want anyone else wearing that gown, if you can’t. Or won’t.

Truth, that; she didn’t. She’d designed it; she’d had it sewn; it was hers and hers alone. And so the honor of wearing it should go to—

Fidelity sucked in a deep breath. It settled through her in a confident wave. Her course was set —
or would that be
my corset
?

“Let’s see how it looks.”

* * * *

The carriage had almost reached the Maynards’ town home and Georgette’s eyes still hadn’t returned to normal size. She shook her head slowly, staring at Fidelity — or was it her cleavage? — through the last of the sunset’s golden light. “I’ve just never seen you looking like this, Fi. You’re—”

There’s the danger, right there.
Fidelity’s temper roiled; those careless girls could ruin her evening before it began. “The first one of you who uses my name in company gets what?”

With a gasp, Georgette slapped a hand over her mouth. “Your everlasting opprobrium.”

“And no chance whatsoever to wear this gown! For the rest of your lives! I’ll shred it to dust rags first!”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it, honestly!”

Jessica laid a hand on Georgette’s heaving shoulder. “But we need to call you something. Give us a name and we won’t get it wrong again.”

An excellent suggestion. Fidelity only paused a moment. “Call me Diana.”

The Roman goddess of the hunt; the Italian for
heavenly
or
divine
. Both of the mouths before her formed perfect Os.

It seemed a proper beginning to the evening.

The stir started a moment after they entered the ballroom.

Fidelity didn’t notice it at first. Oh, she was aware that something untoward was going on, that the crowd rippled around her, heads turning, voices whispering; but she chalked it up to the usual general masked ball silliness and carried on with her business. A few seats remained unclaimed in the corner farthest from the musicians. Mask firmly in place, she led the girls through the crowd in that direction.

Georgette whined. “Not there, F— Diana.”

Fidelity glared; Georgette’s glance back was innocence itself. She leaned closer and whispered, “I didn’t say it. And not over in that dull corner. We’d have a much more entertaining evening here, with our friends.”

“Absolutely,” Jessica said. “The fun crowd.”

That sounded dangerous, and a glance at the “fun crowd” confirmed the suspicion. Several older girls, their fashionable gowns hovering on the accidental verge of decency — rather like hers — gathered behind decorated fans, already surrounded by a crowd of attentive dandies. One man glanced in their direction, his plain black mask shining in the candlelight, a sharp contrast against his pale hair; then he elbowed the man beside him. Within seconds, the entire male pack stared at her, more than one jaw hanging open.

“Please,” Georgette wheedled.

“Absolutely not.” Fidelity turned away and continued the trek to the far corner. Tonight was not the night for those silly girls to join her in ruination or even cause an embarrassing incident. It was her night to create some discreetly indiscreet memories once Georgette and Jessica were innocently distracted, and the “fun crowd” wouldn’t be much help there.
Quite the opposite, in fact.

But within steps she realized that young pack weren’t the only ones staring. Everywhere she looked, her gaze crossed someone else’s — two men at the refreshment table, several older ones near the door to the card room, a legion of redcoats beside the musicians’ dais, a gentleman in a deep blue tailcoat by the stairs. It seemed every man in the ballroom — and there were many many men in the ballroom — it seemed all of them stared at her.

That ripple of motion when they’d entered, those whispers she’d heard at the edge of her awareness but hadn’t paid attention to… It had to be the blue silk gown.
Don’t be silly; of course it’s the gown. Wasn’t that the entire point?

But with the thought, a flutter began in her belly and rippled up her back, dithering through her various parts and bringing lightheaded heat to her face. For so many years she’d been — well, not precisely ignored, but not valued, either. Not sought out by the opposite sex, in all honesty. At some balls she’d enjoyed partners for every dance, but not at all of them, not by far. This sudden flood of attention drove all the air from her lungs and left her breathless, delightfully so.

Jessica leaned closer on her other side. “Do you see…?”

“Shh,” Fidelity said. She looped one arm through Jessica’s, the other through Georgette’s, and lead them to the far corner, her steps gliding and a small smile on her lips.

Please, Lord, don’t let me trip. Or stumble. Or bobble. Or…

* * * *

She was stunning. And Greysteil was appropriately stunned.

He’d taken up a stance by the staircase, feeling silly in his new navy blue swallowtail coat — he should have worn his old black Melton, he’d have been much more comfortable, and instead he’d be worrying all night if this ridiculous thing fit him properly. He always felt that way in a new coat, no matter how well it looked in the tailor’s glass. But as soon as the glistening golden-haired beauty in the blue gown swept into the ballroom, he’d forgotten his wardrobe and stared.

It was her. He couldn’t be fooled, no matter how that mask altered the lines of her face. Her step, her grace, the flash of gold from her upswept hair — so different from her normal style — the way she took command of the two girls in her train… no, Fidelity Scott couldn’t be hidden from him, no matter how extraordinary her simple disguise.

And that gown! The silk fitted her upper body, outlining her luscious form in celestial blue the color of a darkening night sky, and the skirt clung to her legs as she walked. Swirling in front, kicking out behind her, it never quite gave him a clear image of her limbs hidden beneath the silk, just teasing moments of sudden clarity, followed too quickly by a flowing formlessness. It was the most exquisite torture he’d ever known, and he knew he’d never get enough of that torture to satisfy him.

Ripples of attention followed her path, heads turning, whispers trailing behind. But she didn’t pause again. Georgette wearing primrose on Fidelity’s left arm, Jessica in puce on her right — the two girls weren’t nearly as well disguised — arm in arm, the three swept through the throng to a nearby cluster of chairs. Well-chosen strategic location, that; the girls wouldn’t be able to slip away, at least not through the garden door.

“Who on earth…?”

Greysteil glanced over his shoulder. A masked couple stood nearby, staring at the passing beauty. The woman had to be Lady Gower; unless she wore a wig or a full turban, there was no hiding her shining silver hair.

The man shook his head. “No idea,” he said a rich baritone. It sounded like Colonel Danning. “Are those the McTaggart and de Lisle girls with her?”

Mentally Greysteil shook his head; nope, not Lysandra McTaggart and Violetta de Lisle, although there were some outward similarities.

“Perhaps.” Lady Gower smiled, predatory as ever. “We must find out who she is.”

And ensure her identification is whispered to every broadsheet in town.
Any fool could see where that was headed.

The other voices in the ballroom, the whispers surrounding them, sounded no less excited or curious, and no more certain. Judging by the reaction, no one else seemed to have penetrated Fidelity’s disguise. Only he recognized her.

A simple disguise, yes. But an amazingly complete one. Everything she’d been able to alter had been — her hairstyle, her wardrobe, her jewelry, her slippers. Why on earth had she taken such pains, especially since she intended leaving town as soon as he quit pestering her?

Grey’s heart stilled within him, then resumed beating, too hard, too fast. Last season Emily Cross, an ill-advised young lady possessed of more
amour
than wisdom, had contrived a disguise as complete for the Foresters’ Mid-Summer’s Eve ball. During the evening Emily had disappeared from the common view, only to return a half-hour later with a glowing smile, a dreamy expression, her mask dangling from her neck by its ribbons, and a grass-green stain running from her white gown’s back neckline to her bum. The full description and delicious details had made almost all the gossip sheets and the poor woman had escaped to the country within days.

If Fidelity intended an amorous fling, she would never lose the mask.

Surely not. Surely his sudden worry was based upon nothing more than his own overwrought anxieties. Fidelity embodied higher standards than that; she had more discretion, more wisdom. If she sought an adventure—

Well, in all honesty, he wasn’t certain what she’d do. She’d changed since Brightenburg had moved to town, become quieter, more introspective, more reserved and intensely private with her true thoughts and feelings. While he believed she’d not make a laughingstock of herself, the nagging worry niggling at his thoughts refused to be subdued.

No. No, he’d not think the worst of the situation, nor of her. Not immediately. He’d wait and watch and let her game play out. But the possibility only intensified his determination; he’d play his game, too.

And he’d not consider for a moment who she might have decided to play her game
with
.

Getting close to her in that crush was going to be a nightmare. But as she glided into a corner near the statuary and potted plants, as she turned and surveyed the crowd, the strength of the yearning that swept through him insisted it would be a worthy battle.

Because she was all he wanted, his only prize.

* * * *

Sylvestre Brightenburg nearly choked on his champagne. He couldn’t rip his stare from the Aphrodite who’d just crossed the ballroom, that ravishing and ravishable vision now standing by the potted plants as if guarding the door to the rear gardens. The two young ladies hanging on her arms were desperately ordinary in comparison — one in yellow, the other in pink, one’s hair darker, both wearing curls and ribbons; nothing he hadn’t seen, danced with, possessed, tossed away when they’d tired him. Sooner or later, they always tired him.

But this one, oh, she was magnificent. The proud lift of her chin, her graceful carriage, the businesslike stride combined with that fascinating sway, the generous gifts of her figure, softened but not disguised by the glorious blue silk — it was more than a man could stand. And if she hadn’t wanted his attention, all of his attention, then she shouldn’t have worn that gown.

He had to meet her and then she’d be his, for the evening, at least. And that was all he needed. Without a second thought, he pushed his way through the crowd.

* * * *

They converged on her from either side, two tall men behind simple black half-masks, the one wearing the blue tailcoat who’d earlier stood by the stairs and watched her trek across the ballroom, and Sylvestre Brightenburg. To the rest of the crowd, he might be anonymous, identifiable behind the mask only by black hair, hazel eyes, silk stockings, white breeches, and a stylish maroon swallowtail. To everyone else, he could only be a cipher. But he could never be hidden from Fidelity, and his swaggering approach through the ballroom’s flowing crowd hitched her breath in her throat.

His swaggering approach, aye. And his legs. Don’t forget those legs. Give the girl credit; Georgette had a point regarding what he does to silk stockings and breeches.

Both men paused at a polite distance and bowed. Both moved with exceptional grace; both demanded her attention by their very presence. And both spoke at once.

“Might I have—”

Blue Tailcoat broke off, his voice abandoning the impromptu and unintended duet, one strong hand rising and pushing his thick, dark forelock from his face. Something in the sudden movement spoke, not of indecision, but of an abrupt change of plans. Fidelity couldn’t be certain, for the moment lasted less than a second, and Brightenburg’s rich tenor didn’t pause.

“—the first dance?” He finished the sentence alone.

Gracious.
The pounding sound she heard was her pulse, rising in her ears and skipping faster against the rustling of the surrounding crowd.

He’d noticed her. The blue gown had done its job within moments of her entrance. Sylvestre Brightenburg had noticed her and asked her to dance.

Fidelity started to blurt out the only possible answer she could return. But a motion on her right made her pause. Blue Tailcoat shifted from one foot to the other. His broad shoulders slumped and the scowl he shot in Brightenburg’s direction could only be called vexed.

“Exactly what I’d intended to say,” he said.

Blue Tailcoat. A mundane nickname for an elegant man, with his blunt jaw and well-fitting evening clothes, clear green eyes and thick dark hair. She might need a more appropriate moniker for him. Actually, she had the distinct feeling she should recognize him; a strange flavor of familiarity hung between them, as if his name tickled at the tip of her tongue but refused to stammer forth.

Even in the depths of her Brightenburg-induced giddiness, she wouldn’t be rude. She smiled at Blue Tailcoat. “Perhaps the second?”

Brightenburg’s turn to scowl. Even more thrilling; he disliked having competition.
Terrible behavior for a gentlewoman, but oh, how delicious!

Blue Tailcoat’s answering smile was lopsided, good-natured, and totally charming. A tide of gentle warmth flowed beneath her giddiness. He said, “I shall await your return with bated breath.”

And then somehow her arm was through the crook of Brightenburg’s elbow and he’d whisked her away to join the lengthening line for the first dance.