His Forbidden Debutante (8 page)

She wore a golden brocade pelisse trimmed in sable or mink, an expensive fine fur. The same edged a glittering mask of amber silk perched on her delicate nose. Tiny pointed ears were woven into her flowing tresses, every shade of late autumn, and he was reminded of the paperbark maple tree that grew outside his bedroom window at his childhood home. The boughs would turn the warmest shades of brown near the season’s end, and fascinated by the myriad leaves of russet and brown, he’d stare out the window and daydream. This particular memory never failed to comfort and remind of simpler times.

His eyes searched her figure from head to toe and back again.

Realisation came as a direct hit.

Here stood the lady he’d danced with at Monsieur Bournon’s hall, the woman who’d somehow spoken to his soul though she remained silent in his arms. A woman composed of tempting sensual suggestion; strictly forbidden to a man eleven days from the altar.

He pivoted, sharp and abrupt, to collide with an elderly man dressed as a stork. Mumbling his apology, he strode towards the nearest set of French doors, away from the continuous flow of partygoers who sought the opening strains of the orchestra’s melody as if entranced. Yet it was he who needed the slap of fresh air provided on the terrace. He inhaled and exhaled twice to cleanse away stray thoughts.

Nature had other plans for the evening and the sky opened with a drenching rain soon after. He’d sought refuge from the front hall, but now forced inside, he escaped the weather but not the rapid fire of suggestions that ricocheted within his brain. Summoning the demeanour of his title and grateful for his disguise, he rejoined the herd as it meandered towards the reverie, and while he forbade himself from seeking the beguiling ears of a heart-stopping beauty, he couldn’t resist sweeping the room with his gaze as soon as he entered the ballroom.

‘The lion is staring at you as if he’s stalking prey on the savannah.’

‘Esme.’ Lavinia adopted her most prudent tone. ‘What a ridiculous suggestion.’ A little thrill shimmied throughout with her friend’s assertion. She bowed her head and peeped the tip of her slipper from beneath her hem to admire the glistening shoe clips like a well-kept secret.

‘I’ve kept a close eye on his behaviour since I stole you away from Whimsy’s strict chaperone. Thank heavens the Dabneys had the sense to invite such a crush. With Dashwood’s dislike of dancing, and our goal of the opposite, we’ve found sanctuary here the ballroom.’ Esme swivelled a demure glance, executing a survey of the surroundings in a manner suggesting she remained oblivious to all, though she examined every detail with a sagacious eye. ‘How curious. He watches you, but does not wish to be known.’

‘You sound like a description from a gothic novel promising suspense, duplicity and intrigue.’ Laughter bubbled inside her. ‘Perhaps he watches you, Esme. I know of no other woman who could dress as a Juniper tree and appear as delicate and refined. Whoever decided to weave those little pearled buds through your hair evinced genius.’

Esme’s slender figure was wrapped in the latest design, a sheath of heather-coloured satin, in imitation of the tall trunk of a juniper tree. A collection of leaves, gauzy and feather-soft, floated around her shoulders to mimic foliage caught in a playful breeze. She looked stunning and her costume caught the eye of every passer-by so Livie couldn’t imagine how her friend managed to assume the lion singled her out. Besides, their dances had been claimed with expedience and only two slots remained on Livie’s card.

‘No, he’s definitely watching you, not me.’ Esme’s insistent whisper brooked no argument. ‘Look at his build. Such a tall, handsome beast given his mask isn’t hiding a long, hideous scar or horrid disfigurement. These masquerades can be tricky.’

‘I’ll never understand how your brain works, but now I know for certain you’ve read too many gothic novels. And please stop staring or the handsome beast will believe you’re inviting his attention.’

‘Too late.’ Esme dared the words in a singsong tone that announced she’d succeeded in her predetermined goal. ‘He cuts a dashing figure in his costume, does he not? King of the jungle, king of the ballroom.’

Livie dared a glance, unable to withhold her curiosity. The lion waited near the hearth, his shoulder against the woodwork, his gloved hands interlaced. If Livie ventured a descriptor,
undecided
leapt to mind. Lud, Esme had not exaggerated in her assessment of his physique. He looked regal, powerful, and as she snuck another glimpse through her mask, her pulse gave a jolting leap.

He
was
tall. His broad shoulders near met even with the mantel, the grand fireplace a master of the room, a king on a throne, built to be noticed and command attention, just as this gentleman. His clothes were elegant and aristocratic, yet while expensive they lacked the pretentious frippery so many dandies flaunted. His body appeared all hard muscle and splendid form. She wondered at his preoccupation, for his shoulders filled his coat without help from creative tailoring, no pads or seams to manufacture an outstanding shape. His chest tapered to a lean waist, where the waistband of tight fitted buckskin breeches encased muscular thighs. High boots completed the picture, so shiny they reflected the candlelight on their tips, and she dared a fond smile at the similarity to her shoe clips. Yet he was no dandy. Like the animal he’d chosen, this man represented natural masculinity, uncommonly handsome yet refined and polished like a treasured gemstone coveted by the crown.

Her heart stuttered. Imagine if he truly
did
admire her? She stole another glance beneath her lashes, behind her spectacles, safely hidden by her mask. Lud, he was more impressive than her most scandalous daydream.

The orchestra began a lively tune and she was startled, not having given due attention to the evening’s entertainment beyond the brick lintol, when Lord Chellins arrived to claim her for the quadrille. He ushered her onto the tiles where, in a desperate attempt to determine where the lion remained, she tossed a glance over her shoulder, but the crowd swelled with the oncoming arrangement and she could not see past a rotund ladybug who took her place in formation to the right.

The guests divided into smaller sets of six and at last the dance began, each lady positioned to face her partner as the first note struck. In less than a heartbeat, the flurry of masked creatures with long capes and elaborate costumes whirled the ballroom into a kaleidoscope of colour. Livie smiled, matching the fancy footwork of Lord Chellins who returned her grin beneath his moss-green grasshopper mask, engrossed in the jig and joviality of the moment. Relieved to be enmeshed in distraction, she launched into the first promenade, her arm linked with Chellins as they circled once before separating and trading partners. The procession would continue until she’d twirled a turn with each of the males in the group.

Somewhere through the logical progression of the dance, a pairing in their assemblage stepped away and a new set of dancers filled the line. A prickle of the tiny hairs on Livie’s nape alerted to the change before her eyes took in the advantage. It was he, the lion by the hearth, and he could dance an impressive reel, no matter his muscular physique defied the graceful fluidity of the movements. His arm swept the air as sharp as a sword blade, and when she found herself traded by Chellins and wrapped in a tight elbow link with the lion, Livie thought she might stop breathing altogether.

‘Have we met before, little fox?’ His rich tenor dallied near her ear though the motion of the dance carried them through a revolution.

It was an excellent question as they hadn’t completed introductions and were partnered out of circumstance, yet seemed aware of each other on an almost intimate level. She couldn’t let the moment pass without the smallest parry.

‘A lion and a fox are unlikely friends, are they not?’ Her casual query whispered close.

He had no time to advance an answer as the steps pulled them apart to circle with other participants in the formation. She was grateful for the reprieve. Her heart beat triple-time to match the severe scolding her better sense warred on her bold flirtation.

Breathless and more than a little thrilled to be dancing once again on sturdy legs, able to depend on her feet to move her into his hold, the wish occurred with miraculous celerity. The exhilarating giddiness, that same bubble of laughter she’d kept contained while considering Esme’s suggestion, gained strength and pushed up from the butterflies reeling in her stomach, past her hesitation and free. Aware she drew stares from the others enjoying the quadrille, she laughed louder, caring not a whit.

Effervescence. The definition explained not the condition, but rather, the epitome of the darling fox who laughed within the dance. She possessed an inner joy that overflowed, causing everyone near to revel in the light she shared. The desire to touch her, stroke his fingertip across her cheek, caress her skin, made him unbearably restless and he missed a step in the formation. Quick to correct, he again clasped her arm to whirl in a circle, the dizzying sensation welcome and at the same time disorienting. What was he doing? How could he experience such visceral emotion when he was bound for marriage in less than two weeks?

Her fragrance wound around him casting a spell, a delicate floral scent he would forever remember, and as he slid a sideways glance to her profile, he noted the brilliant glint of exhilaration in her bright blue eyes as if she kept a precious secret there, the mask too concealing, the yearning to see more of her an urgent thrum in his brain. If he hadn’t identified her by the lovely cascade of hair, he would have known her during the dance, the curve of her waist beneath his palm imprinted from their waltz, no matter his gloves prevented true contact.

The necessary steps forced them to separate and, when he took hold of the next partner, he shifted his focus to the fox with a rationalisation he could claim no foul for attending participation within the dance.

Her hair caught the momentum of her motion, silky strands of fawn, sienna and amber, and for a reason he could not explain an aching knot of tension wrenched his chest. His body tensed. Each muscle tightened. Did she recognise him? Would she remember him from the lesson they’d shared? Did it matter?

Yes.

He’d once lost the opportunity to make a lasting impression, the letters nothing more than memories now. It was important she know it was he. It couldn’t lead to anything. Could never be more than a coincidental encounter, yet the notion the music would end and she not know he partnered her burned like a flame in his soul.

The number approached its finish and with the next exchange he held her for the final revolution. They hadn’t spoken since their initial repartee and, somehow, he knew she was as aware as he of fast-fading opportunity. They twirled to the music, their heads turned in synchronicity, nose to nose, mask to mask, their eyes locked in a heated velvety silence that overrode the buoyant music, louder than the vibrant conversation and spontaneous laughter. He couldn’t drag his gaze from hers. They spoke without words, forged a connection, as if tied by a thread and slowly ravelled closer until time stopped, all else ceased to exist, the scant space between them seemingly cavernous, yet pulsing with arresting heat. At last she released a steadying exhale having waited patiently for the chance to breathe again, no longer able to contain it, the moment too frangible. He inhaled sharply, wanting, if nothing else, a whisper of her all to himself.

The music wound to an end and they separated, motionless at the centre of the group, and in an act of sentiment more than sense, he reached to the edge of his mask to peel away his disguise and reveal himself only to realise the cost of such an action. He stopped, the flitter of surprise, and then disappointment, fleeting in her eyes. A raw silence roared in his ears.

The group dissolved. He forced a bow and took his leave. How foolish. He could not continue this masquerade. He would leave for Clipthorne on the morrow, visit Claire, and exorcise this intolerable unrest.

Chapter Seven

How do you occupy your time when you aren’t writing letters, my dearest? Do you enjoy embroidery or watercolours? The pianoforte? I am fond of fencing and dare to confess I’ve honed my skill to a high level through instruction and punishing practice. A competitive assault between two proficient opponents is the ideal antidote to boredom while it increases strength and rapier-sharp reflexes. One never knows when heroics may be necessary.

Livie rushed past Esme without explanation and aimed for the retiring room, the emotion too much for her. What was happening? She was no wilting flower, yet the last two encounters with men, with that man, had left her shaken, dizzy, and at the same time euphoric. When their eyes met and held, it was a bolt of lightning to her brain, a clap of thunder in her heart. Nothing made sense. After their chance meeting at Monsieur Bournon’s hall, she had pushed the incident from her mind, not allowing the memory of his firm hold and peculiar behaviour to influence her thoughts. How foolish it would be to pin her romantic hopes on a stranger. Someone who happened into her life and then right out again. Hadn’t she committed the same grave error with Randolph? Letter after letter they’d exchanged, line after line of conversation, threaded through with the unspoken intent they would someday plan a meeting and pursue the attraction that laced every compliment and flirted with each conversation.

No, she would be stronger this time, and smarter. Her debut was less than two weeks away and never had she anticipated the future more. So many days had wasted while she waited in bed, of little use to anyone, unable to care for herself, the despicable reality of helplessness all she’d known. She tightened her lips in a wry smile. She would never feel helpless again. Never. She would control her future, put one foot in front of the other until she found herself running into the arms of the man she chose to share her life with.

She took in the retiring room now, busy and overcrowded, having rushed in giving little thought to how others noted her arrival. Whimsy continually reminded her to be cognizant of others’ perception, for society comprised a fickle, critical opinion and a debutante could not afford the tarnish of unjustifiable gossip or the cut direct.