These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel (2 page)

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Standing as far from us as was possibly acceptable, he shifted awkwardly, eyes held on Rose, and murmured, “Good evening.”

“Welcome to Bramhurst, Mr. Braddock,” my mother said, taking charge. “I hope you are finding the country agreeable.”

“It is . . . yes,” he said, still looking keenly at Rose. My sister is quite pretty indeed, but this felt like something else. “I have heard much about you. I—I hope to
see Miss Rosamund’s . . .
miracles
myself.” His eyes burned bright as he put on a strange sort of grimace that I could only assume was an attempt at a smile. Was he mocking her
nursing expertise?

Eager for us to be further acquainted, Sir Winston stepped in to hurry the process along. “Sebastian, why don’t you accompany Miss Wyndham and Miss Rosamund into the ballroom, and
Miss Rosamund can tell you all about how she saved your dear old unc—What? Don’t be shy, boy, give her your arm.” Sir Winston gestured to Rose, who was closer to his nephew.

Mr. Braddock took a step back, his eyes flickering between all of us. “My apologies. . . . Perhaps they—you—uh—can find your own way in?”

He gave Rose a stilted bow and whirled away with nary a goodbye. We watched in stunned silence as he attempted to escape the main entrance hall, his initial route into the dining room too
slow-moving and his alternative into the obstructed ballroom even worse. On his third try, he crossed back to the other side without meeting our eyes and finally disappeared into the game room.

“Ah, my nephew,” Sir Winston said. “You will have to accept my apologies—”

Rose jumped in to save the floundering man. “Sir Winston, do not trouble yourself. He must keenly feel the pressure of meeting your many friends. I assure you, we are not
offended.”

Sir Winston relaxed at her kind words. “As usual, Miss Rosamund, you see straight to the heart of the matter. He is quite overwhelmed. I hope Miss Wyndham will also give him the benefit of
the doubt!” Sir Winston beamed hopefully at me, and Mother’s gaze cast a hot warning.

“Of course, I understand,” I said. I believe it even came out sounding somewhat sincere.

With yet another wink, Sir Winston bade us a good evening and steered my father toward the smoking room. I let out a quiet snort that only Rose could hear.

“My, my, what an attractive, eligible young man,” my mother proudly declared, ignoring my dropped jaw. “A bit odd and mysterious, yes? I know that’s very popular these
days. Mr. Sebastian Braddock—I shall have to ask about his parents.”

“Mother, are you really trying to marry me off to the man who just snubbed your youngest and ran off in order to appeal to fashion?”

“It was not on purpose, Ev,” Rose said. “He must have been anxious. And even
you
must admit he is extremely handsome. And tall.”

“As handsome as he may or may not be, he couldn’t simply walk you in like a gentleman?”

Mother glowered at me in an unwitting imitation of Mr. Braddock. “Perhaps he was running from my daughter, who could not make the slightest effort at politeness.”

“There is a troubling Byronic trend you will see next year, Rose, where these men try to appear mysterious and brooding without one true emotion among the lot of them. It will be nothing
but exasperating,” I explained.

“Surely it cannot be as exasperating as your complaints about them,” my mother snapped, turning on her heels and all but dragging us into the crush.

The night already felt like an eternity. Yet deeper in we ventured. My mother’s punishment meant deliberately passing the dining room, where the waft of fresh breads and pastries could
tickle and taunt my nose before we closed in on a bright waltz tune. If there were a tenth circle of hell, it would most definitely be a country ballroom.

The crowd bulged to the edge of the white marble dance floor, and a flurry of twirling dresses revolved around the center. All eyes fell on Rose when she floated in: The orchestra struggled to
concentrate on their unremarkable tune, and a man accidentally stepped on his partner’s foot, while she withheld the yelp for propriety’s sake. Sometimes I wondered if I simply imagined
the effect my sister had on a room, but here it was undeniable. It isn’t just her fair curls and bright blue eyes that draw attention; Rose has something indefinably wonderful about
her—a coat of goodness she is unable to shed.

As a result, a mass of charmed suitors seemed to slink across the room to Rose. Mother, meanwhile, greeted several friends and fell deep into such giddy conversations about bachelors, one would
think they were just out of finishing school. I could see her starting to arrange dances for us, but fortunately, a welcome sight intervened. He bowed before us, dropping his head full of silken
brown hair and rising up with his face wreathed in an ever-present smile. Our dearest, oldest friend, Robert Elliot.

“Evelyn, Rose, good evening to you. You’re looking quite lovely tonight.” His brown eyes never left Rose as he spoke.

In fact, his eyes had not left Rose much in his eighteen years. Living on a neighboring estate, Robert had been our constant companion since childhood, suffering through many a doll’s tea
party and game of hide-and-seek. He grew into a kind, affable man, if slightly earnest. Not the man for me, but . . .

“Thank you, Robert,” Rose replied. “A lovely evening indeed.”

My sister never mentioned her feelings for Robert, but the attachment between them had always been obvious. Even when we were children, I often felt as if I were sneaking into their secret
society without an invitation. I wondered whether tonight would be the night he finally made his intentions clear.

“It
really
is a lovely evening, isn’t it?” Robert continued with far more passion than the topic called for.

I glanced at Robert, who looked at Rose, who looked back at Robert. Well, odd one out, then. Maybe he would propose if I disappeared.

“Oh look! Upholstery,” I declared, feigning fascination with a side chair in the corner of the room. “I will be right back.”

Creeping toward the chair, I looked around to be sure no one was paying me any mind. Then, ever so subtly, I slid behind a large green plant. Good. A place safe from dancing, where I could make
sure Rose and Robert’s romance flourished. The two were a good match, even if Robert was a little wanting in confidence. They were never at a loss for conversation, and when they got into the
thick of things, Robert would actually relax, looking as if he were at home by a soothing fire instead of standing right in the center of a blazing one.

I gave a small, quiet cheer as he worked up the momentum to ask her for a dance, and her eyes lit as she nodded yes. Or at the least, I supposed she did. A large leaf was currently obscuring a
quarter of the scene. She took his hand, while many disappointed faces watched her glide into the center of the room for the next song.

I sighed and patted the plant. Healthy, green, and stout as it might be, it was not the best company. If only Catherine weren’t galloping across Moroccan plains or attending a
risqué Parisian salon. My only other choice was to rejoin my mother and listen to fascinating facts about every eligible man passing by. (Apparently, Mr. Egbert collects gentleman’s
bootlaces! The wonder of it all.)

I peered glumly through the foliage at Rose and Robert, twirling on the dance floor. They seemed marvelously happy, and I had to question my own dissatisfaction. Was I simply too disagreeable,
as Mother claimed? Would I grow just as bored of the Continent? And why was there a giant man staring through the window?

Him. The one who had lifted the carriage. I hastened toward the wall, maneuvering around conversations to afford myself a better angle, but when I reached the next window, he was nowhere to be
seen. Nothing outside but night falling over Sir Winston’s estate. I didn’t know whether I wanted it to be him or my boredom manifesting itself as madness again. Hoping for any sort of
answer, I spun back around for the first window and collided directly with a sleek black suit, and the gentleman in it.

“Dear me. I had no idea my absence would cause such distress.”

Pulling back, I could see he also carried a surprisingly unspilled wineglass, despite the collision. He was just my height, but the confident way he held his square chin made him seem taller.
Yes, it was certainly him. Mr. Nicholas Kent.

“What on earth are you doing here?” The question left my lips before I could decide if it was too blunt.

“I wanted to see the reaction my arrival would get, and I must say, it did not disappoint,” he said with a smile.

I couldn’t suppress the jolt of pleasure. Mr. Kent was one of the few people who managed to make these social functions tolerable. I hadn’t expected him to make the trip all the way
to Bramhurst. My plan to find no enjoyment in the evening was suddenly in danger of failing. “You’ve come all the way from London just for a joke, then?” I asked. “I guess I
shouldn’t be surprised.”

“No, no, my reason is of much greater importance. The entire city is in chaos. Buildings collapsing, streets flooding, the population plague-stricken, the Thames ablaze. But it was when an
orphan boy I rescued from the rubble asked me, with his dying breath, ‘Why did this all have to happen, sir? Why did Miss Wyndham leave?’ that I solemnly promised to bring you back and
restore peace.”

“You must have spent quite some time on your long train ride thinking that up.”

“Not exactly. The greater part was spent forming and rehearsing a plan of convincing you to dance with me.”

“Oh, I cannot wait for this. Let’s have it.”

He turned around, drained his drink, took an exaggerated breath, and then whirled back, eyes filled with false surprise to find me still here. “Ah, Miss Wyndham, hello, would you like to
dance?”

“No, not really.”

“Hmm. Then let me ask you this: If someone went through the trouble to compose you a letter and you were to receive it in front of them, would you callously toss it out without
reading?”

I shook my head, playing along. “No, of course not, that would be shockingly rude.”

He set his empty glass on a passing footman’s tray. “Then is that not the same impolite behavior as refusing to dance to this beautiful music that was composed and is now being
performed expressly for your waltzing pleasure?”

“There are plenty of dancers. I can’t possibly be offending anyone.”

“What about my coming all this way?”

“So you’re offended?”

“Incredibly. If you refuse, I’ll be forced to dance alone,” he said, holding up his arms as if he were leading an invisible partner. “It will be dreadfully embarrassing,
and it will be your fault.”

I snorted. “Threats are only going to make me refuse you more.”

His hands dropped to his side, and he let out a sigh. “Very well. What would you do if you could do anything at this ball?”

“I’d eat cake.”

“Unless you eat upwards of two hundred cakes, that particular activity will not occupy your entire night.”

My mind shuffled through all the possibilities—cards, suitors, copious amounts of wine—but nothing appealed. This was exactly why I avoided every ball I could.

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

“Then I present you with two choices. We stand here, observing our dull surroundings, racking our minds for ideas. Or,” he said, putting his hand out, “we do our thinking while
spinning in circles and forgetting where we are.”

“As persuasive an argument as any,” I said, surrendering my hand. He clasped it for an inordinate length of time before putting it on his arm, and I didn’t mind where he led
me. As we moved toward the dance floor, a new song hummed to life, and Mr. Kent, unable to restrain his smile, pulled me into a waltz.

With gentle pressure on my waist, he guided me in slow circles, weaving us through the dizzying stream of couples, our every step and turn on point with the beat. My head felt light, almost
giddy with the rush of motion. His light brown eyes met mine, and they seemed to dance along with us.

“You were right, this is absolutely dismal,” he said.

“Don’t be so quick to judge,” I replied. “Here comes the exciting part, where we continue to twirl in the exact same manner as before.”

Mr. Kent scoffed. “Would you like to reverse our direction? Knock a few couples down?”

“But then there’ll be nowhere to dance, with bodies all over the floor.”

“My God, you are impossible to please.”

As we bounced to the swells and dips, the room and its crowd revolved with us. Poor Rose whirled by in a flash of silks as another infatuated dance partner tried desperately to win her approval
with his footwork. Robert stood idly on the side, eagerly awaiting his next turn with her. Mother, breaking away from her group of matchmakers, made her way along the outskirts of the room. And Mr.
Braddock stood determinedly by himself, a slight space between him and a gaggle of giggling schoolgirls. He seemed to be directly in my mother’s path. Or even worse, her destination.

“I’ve changed my mind,” I told Mr. Kent. “We’re dancing forever now.”

“Ah, that’ll be a difficult life, but very well, I will let no other claim you.”

“Good, for I can see my mother getting ready to arrange a dance with Mr. Braddock.”

“I see.” Something lit behind his eyes as they landed on Mr. Braddock, and I couldn’t tell if it was amusement or jealousy. “Would that be the fellow over there? He
certainly seems to have gathered a following.”

“Indeed, it is.” And Mr. Kent was right. It wasn’t just my mother and a few young women. Every mother in the county was eyeing him, fans fluttering and bosoms quivering.
Simpering misses subtly pinched their cheeks and smoothed down their hair. How absurd.

A tall, plain girl bravely stepped from the pack and marched toward him. She turned and stared daggers at her companions, who had renewed their giggles. Mr. Braddock scanned the crowd closely,
as though looking for someone, but his stiff posture suggested that he knew what a stir his presence had created and wanted to leave immediately.

Mr. Kent and I watched with some delight as the brave girl came up behind him and very impolitely grabbed his arm. By reflex, he wrenched his arm away, but the girl held on as she fell into a
paroxysm of coughing. And though Mr. Braddock tried to step away, she managed to climax her performance with a none-too-graceful faint directly onto his person with some well-practiced gasps for
breath in his arms.