Bride Enchanted (4 page)

She had to think of how Aubrey would want to be seen, and then dress differently, so as to win her wager. Once again, she was aware of how little she knew him. One thing she did know, she thought as she scowled—she'd be
damned
if he actually came up with a matching costume to hers. He said he knew her. She doubted he really did. If he did, it would be unsettling. And if he didn't, she'd win. She loved winning.

That would show him she was her own person, not an echo from his past. She wasn't a copy of
anyone. If he could accept that, she might even be able to accept him. That would be wonderful, because whether she knew him well or not, deep down she knew very well that she very much wanted to say yes to him.

A thought came to her and made her sit up straight. She shouldn't be thinking how
he'd
dress. She knew that. He'd said it. He'd be guessing her costume, and he'd match it. So she had to think and double think. First, she had to try to imagine what he'd thought she'd do, which was probably very likely what she'd like to do. Then, she'd have to do the opposite.

She'd been to masquerades before, but always wore one of her mother's antique gowns and a mask. She'd planned something different this time. With such a magnificent escort, she'd wanted to go to the ball a glorious sight, gowned in gold and silver and veils: a queen, a fairy princess. She'd decided to be an exotic Eastern princess, garbed in golden silk, and with satin silvery streamers capped by softly tinkling bells. She'd have a veil and a beautiful headdress. She'd tried on the costume. It had everything she wanted but the bells. Her only worry had been that she wasn't grand enough to carry off the disguise the way it should be shown. She'd tilted this way and that in the looking glass, cheered by her maid's exclama
tions. She herself had been blinded by the shimmer of the fabric. She'd convinced herself it would be glorious.

She sighed. If she did rig herself out like that, she now realized she'd look very much like other women she'd seen at masquerades, each trying to outshine the others. And if she dared dress like that, and Aubrey really could know what she most wanted to do, he'd dress like a prince, and they'd match.

Which was ridiculous. He couldn't know. Still…

So then, she thought, she should get a costume exactly unlike every other woman. A pirate, or a tavern wench, or some such, would be simple, and she'd seen those costumes too. But they'd been on women of lower repute, or scandalous females of the
ton
. That was out. She had her own pride to think about.

She could dress like a man: a pageboy, or a young fop of a fellow. But then she'd have to show her legs, and so she'd be like one of those wild, attention-seeking creatures. She didn't want to shame herself or look foolish. She wanted to look attractive, and yet not like anything Aubrey would imagine, however well he knew her.

Eve didn't get much sleep that night. But she wasn't tired in the morning. Instead, she leapt
from her bed, and called her maid. She now knew what to do; she just had to find the materials to do it with.

 

“You look surprisingly handsome,” Eve said, circling her brother.

“Dash it all, I
am
handsome,” Sherry said.

“I never thought of you as a prince, though,” his sister said.

He preened. And he had the clothes to do it. He was in scarlet and gold: a scarlet capelet, a gold tunic tied with a scarlet belt over black tights, with soft high boots, and a dashing sort of a slouched hat with a brave red plume sitting tilted back over his ear.

“A Renaissance Prince, “she mused. “You know? It does suit you.”

It did, making him look rakishly slim rather than awkward and lanky.

“I'm Robin Hood,” he said proudly.

“That, you're not,” she said. “The evil sheriff would have sent an arrow through you in a second if you'd gone romping through the forest in all that spangle.”

He thought a moment, and then shrugged. “Dashed fellow at the costume shop said Robin Hood, but a Renaissance prince it is then. Now, let's get a look at you, whip off that hood and
that cloak you've wrapped yourself in, and let me see.”

“Not yet,” she said, ducking her head. “I want it to be a surprise.”

“Mr. Ashford,” the butler announced.

She braced herself as Aubrey entered the salon where they were waiting. It didn't help.

She was stunned.

Had she thought he was magnificent before? It was not a patch on what he was now.

Aubrey was dressed as an Eastern prince. But out of some fantastical tale of derring-do. His costume was more magnificent than anything she'd seen in the costume shop. He wore gold and silver, and jewels at his wrists and on his hands, and they seemed to be the real thing. When he moved she heard the faint sound of the little bells that hung from the wide silver sash that went round his lean waist. He wore a white silken shirt, billowing at the sleeves, with a long, loose golden waistcoat over it. His silvery pantaloons were billowing too, and he wore golden slippers that tipped up at their toes. A silver turban with a startlingly bright green emerald at the center was wound around his head. What could be seen of his hair was dark gold. He looked like himself, but not at all the same. He didn't glitter; he gleamed. From behind his silver eye mask, his eyes glowed
dark and mysteriously. His smile was pearlescent, he was wonderfully exotic, incredibly attractive, but more, Aubrey
was
a prince.

He smiled and bowed, to the sound of those faraway silver bells. Eve stared. Had she stayed with her first impulse and her deepest wish, she'd have been his match. This way, she'd won. It hardly seemed worth it now. It would have been wonderful to match him tonight. Still, she knew she never could, in any costume, and consoled herself with that.

“You look very grand, Sherry,” he said, eyeing Sheridan's costume. And then those dark eyes flew to Eve. “And you in a cloak, Eve? Come, no pretending you've forgotten something so you can go flying up to your chamber to change. Let's see who you are to be tonight.”

“You think I'm so craven?” she asked, and smiled. She threw back her hood, opened her cape, and let it drop to the floor.

Sheridan gasped.

Aubrey blinked. But then he threw back his head and laughed.

She wore a ragged old gown, torn in places, its hem all lengths, of a material that might have once been blue. The patches on it were several other shades. A long grubby apron was tied over it. Her feet were in scuffed torn slippers; her curly
brown hair covered by a rag of a scarf. She bore smudges of ashes on her laughing face, and she held her ragged broom as proudly as any princess might hold a scepter.

“What the devil?” Sherry said, staring at her. “Your face is dirty!”

“I believe that's the point,” Aubrey murmured looking at her appreciatively, for her wit. And, Eve thought, for more than that. Even though she was in rags, he gazed at her hungrily, as though she were dressed as a queen, or a siren.

She bowed to him. “Welcome, oh, dazzling Prince. I have won!”

He bowed to her. “I'm afraid you haven't.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You're clearly Ella of the Cinders. And I? Why, I'm your Prince Charming come to take you to the ball. Pay up.”

She blinked, looking for a flaw in his reasoning. She hadn't thought of that. “But Ella didn't go to the ball in her rags,” she said cagily. “She wasn't with the prince when she dressed like this.”

“Yes, she was,” he said, smiling. “The prince met her in her rags when he returned her shoe.”

“He wasn't an Eastern prince,” she persisted.

“Who says he wasn't?” he asked pleasantly.

She scowled as she thought, then lifted her head. “I see!” she declared. “But it's a cheat. Because a
prince can match any female; he can match anyone in any costume.”

“Yes,” he said. “In almost every fairy story, in every folktale, there's a prince at the end who wins all. But there wasn't any penalty for cleverness, was there?”

“I wish there was,” she said grudgingly.

“Don't sulk,” he said seriously. “It was a good try. But I've been at this far longer than you. Even so, now you must pay up.”

“Now?” she asked, glancing quickly at Sheridan.

“When I tell you. As for the immediate ‘now,' shall we go? Or wait for your fairy godmother?”

“She obviously took the evening off,” Eve said resentfully, tying on her mask. He held up her cloak for her to put on again, and even having lost the wager, she suddenly found her spirits soaring.

I
t was a sparkling ball, masquerades always were no matter how inelegant the setting, or crude the guests. Masquerade parties were the current rage because everyone enjoyed them, and anyone could have fun at one. Even the popular public ones held at the opera, where dustmen in disguise could pay to dance with slumming duchesses, looked entrancing in the glow of gaslight. Stage light and gaslight made glass shine like diamonds, painted cheeks look milkmaid rosy, and dashing good looks seem real and possible on any man.

But tonight, at this London town house, the invitations were exclusive. The jewels the ladies wore
were
diamonds, emeralds, and rubies; the costumes were silk and satin and not tawdry substitutes, and when the ball ended, the sun would rise on splendor and not tatty stage effects.

There were harlequins and Cleopatras by the score. Bishops, nuns, and monks abounded. Ve
netian masks of the fantastical characters of
commedia dell'arte
were worn atop long black cloaks completely enshrouded identities. There were owl masks and peacock feathers, dancing girls and Elizabethan queens, devils and angels, courtiers from every year in English history, and even a few savages from the tropics and the New World thrown in for balance. The guests were wealthy, the guests were bored, and there was no expense they wouldn't go to in order to make the rest of their number gasp at midnight when they revealed their true identities. Except, of course, for those concealed so completely that they could leave before midnight and slink off into the night after their improprieties.

Not only could anyone look attractive, but anything could be done if one was in disguise. It was perhaps the prime reason why masquerades were so very popular.

Eve hardly saw the others at the ball. She couldn't take her eyes off her partner. He never left her side. This would have declared them engaged to be married at any other Society ball. Tonight, though, their masks allowed them to constantly dance together, stand together, and talk together without an eyebrow being raised.

Aubrey looked magnificent even in this crowd of splendidly dressed partygoers. He was thrill
ing to look at: a golden-haired magical prince, garbed in jewels so fine he might well have been a real sheik or an emir from a fairy story, visiting this mortal land for the night. Others noticed the magnificent figure he cut, and not a few wondered who the little ragged miss next to him was. Certainly not his wife. Such a man wouldn't partner a lady in life who made such mock of his splendor. Most people assumed she was titled, from their own set. Some thought it was a jest, she might actually be a light-skirt: a favored mistress come to the ball, only to disappear at midnight. After all, what female would poke fun at poverty if she weren't already rich?

Eve didn't notice. It didn't seem that Aubrey did either. They danced and looked into each other's eyes. Eve felt as though she was in his thrall, and tonight, in disguise, in this magical place she didn't mind.

“We dance well together,” he finally said, in her ear, as they waltzed.

“That, we do,” she said.

“We converse well together,” he persisted.

“Yes, that too.”

“But I'm afraid I can't judge more, at least not from just a few kisses.”

Her head went up. “Then you'll stop asking me to marry you?”

He laughed. “No. I'll make more opportunities to kiss you.”

The music stopped. They stood facing each other, both smiling: one widely, one less so.

A pirate stepped between them. He wore a white shirt with wide ballooning sleeves; a sash round his waist with a golden sword tucked into it, dark breeches and high, loosely fitted buccaneer boots. He wore an eye mask and a magnificent hat with a drooping feather. He swept off his fantastical hat and bowed from the waist as he looked at Eve. “The music's beginning again,” he said. “May I have this dance, little Ella of the Cinders?”

She looked at Aubrey. Then she grinned. Dropping a housemaid's ducking curtsey, she placed her hand on the pirate's proffered arm, and with a backward look at Aubrey said pertly, in a countrified accent, “Aye, thankee, kind sir.”

“So, Miss Sit-by-the-Cinders,” the pirate said, as he led her into a country dance, “will you give me a hint?”

“A hint about what, sir?” she asked as the dance took them apart.

“Now, surely you know that the game is to give your partners a hint, and the one that guesses right gets a kiss at midnight?” he told her when the dance brought them together again.

“I didn't,” she said. “But,” she added, “I'm that glad to play the game. Because you'll never guess. Does it work the other way too?” she asked cheekily, as the music whirled her down the line away from him. She took the opportunity to steal a glance at Aubrey, at the side of the dance floor. He was watching and not smiling. She was.

When she returned to the pirate, he put one hand on his heart. “Aye, the game is the same for both of us. My hint then is that you'll never find me board a ship, but on shipboard I stay.”

She laughed. “Very good! Then mine is that you've seen me before, but you've never seen me at all.”

“How could I have been such a blind man?”

“But who would notice a kitchen maid, m'lor?”

“I should have,” he said, taking her hand as they ducked their heads and stepped together through the end of the aisle the other dancers made, as each couple did in turn.

Eve was dizzy from the dancing, merry from the jest, and tickled that she'd possibly annoyed Aubrey. At least she'd showed him that he wasn't the first or last male in the world that wanted to dance with her, even in her rags. Which is why she didn't notice that after the pirate had whirled her down the line, he spun her away from the dance. They paused near an opened door, where
a fresh night breeze tantalized them by cooling their faces.

“Come,” the pirate said, tugging on her hand. “Let's go outdoors and breathe.”

She wanted to, but giddy as she still was, Eve remembered this was a masked man who could be any man and it was decidedly not a good idea to go out into the dark with a strange man in London, or anywhere.

She forced a laugh and tried to pull back. “Thankee, sir, but no. I know me place. And that is in here, in plain sight, be it hot or not.”

He tightened his grip on her hand and tugged harder, so hard that she was moved slightly off balance. “Come, lass,” he said. “It's only a back garden. What can happen there?”

“Anything. Everything. Pray loose my lady, sir,” Aubrey said, as he appeared in the opened doorway. He put one gloved and jeweled hand at his waist. “You carry a sword. I carry a scimitar. My weapon isn't too good for parry and thrust, but it can reap heads. So it might be awkward when I win, but I'm sure anyone would say it was a fair fight if we duel.”

Aubrey's voice was soft but the pirate immediately dropped Eve's hand. He stepped back as though struck. “My mistake,” he said, recovered enough to make a shaky bow. “I didn't know the
maid was really spoken for. A thousand pardons. Good evening.” He backed off, and away, and disappeared into the throng of partygoers.

Aubrey stood looking down at Eve. He held out a hand to her. “It
is
cooler out there,” he said. “And you do know me. While it's true that anything can happen, nothing will unless you want it to. Will you come with me?”

She nodded, put her hand in his, and stepped out the door with him.

It wasn't dark, though the sky was. Dozens of flickering lanterns hung from the trees, more twinkled on the pathways that dwindled off into the distance: the night garden was like a starry sky. Eve stepped over the flagstones with Aubrey and watched a fantastical parade of costumed guests moving along the garden paths. Fox-headed men and glittering ladies, gentlemen with long furry tails and bird-headed women in ball gowns, clowns and ghosts and demons strolled in the garden under a bright half moon.

It was enchanting. But nothing fascinated Eve so much as her escort. His remarkable face glowed moonlight pure in the night shadows, and the eerie light made his hair shine white. The jewels on his turban and resplendent tunic smoldered with banked fires as they passed the lanterns and wandered under the moonlight. Eve again
wished she hadn't been so humorous in her costume. She could have worn a golden wig too; she could have glowed as richly as he did. Because the longer they stayed in costume, the more they both adopted the mien of the people who might have worn the garb they had on. Aubrey looked more elegant and imperious by the moment, and she'd never felt so less than his equal, so much his to command.

He also looked utterly alien. She'd been drawn to his good looks, but now it was a shining stranger who paced at her side. He finally stopped beneath a towering tree. Stars and glowworms twinkled high above them between the tree's lacy leaves. And, for a miracle, there was no one else nearby.

“So,” Aubrey said, looking down at her. “Again I ask. That's twice. I'll only ask thrice. Even Caesar was only offered the crown three times. It's a powerful number, three. Less, and I haven't really tried to win you. More, and I become a figure of ridicule. So, Eve, will you marry me?”

He held up a hand. “I know: you don't know me. How many years does it take for a woman to know a man? I've heard fifty isn't enough, I know one hundred isn't. Every marriage is a leap into the unknown, Eve. How well does anyone know anything? I know that we suit. I know I'm attracted to you. I know you're intelligent and well-
spoken, good-natured and kind. You'd be a good mother and a good wife, simply because you're a good person.”

He brushed his gloved hand lightly across her cheek and gazed into her eyes. “What can I tell you about myself that you don't know?” he mused. “I'm not cruel to animals. I try not to be unkind to people. I've never struck a mortal female. I won't cause you hurt, and I'd only ask that you never cause me any either. What else would you have of me?” He paused.

“Of course, if you aren't attracted to me,” he added softly, “then we'll say no more. What would be the point? This wouldn't be an arranged marriage. Be sure, I want you body and mind.”

“Where?” she found herself asking breathlessly.

He cocked his head to the side.

“I mean,” she said, embarrassed at the spell his voice and words seemed to have cast on her. “Where would we live? If we did marry.”

“Here, in London,” he said. “But mostly at my estate to the west. It's beautiful there, so lovely all say it's magical. I know you will love it. Why did you ask? Where would you want to live?”

“I just wanted to know.”

He nodded. “Now you do.” He waited for her reply.

“Would you have a mistress?” she asked. “Many gentlemen of the
ton
do.”

“No,” he said. “That I promise. I would not. Nor would I want you to entertain any men in my absence. And certainly not in my presence,” he added, with a curling smile.

“Don't humor me,” she said seriously. “If you want my answer now, you have to answer questions that would normally come up slowly, over several conversations.”

“Really?” he asked. “So far as I can see, and I have excellent vision, apart from those few gentlepersons who grew up together, most of them marry because of their family's plans. Or, if they're free to choose, they decide on their partner after a few dances and a drive or two round the park together. In fact, I think you already know me better than most women of the
ton
knew their spouses when they gave consent. But you need more than that, don't you? Quite right. That's only one of the reasons I want you, for your wisdom. Here then,” he said, and took her in his arms.

She hesitated, her hands braced on his chest. “Have you loved before?”

He sighed. “I'll be honest. I've thought so. Who has not? But time, and meeting you, showed me my error. Don't make a face. I don't lie to you, it's true. There is no one to stop me from doing
anything I wish now. And see? Here I am, yours to command. As to that, have you loved before, Eve?”

She shook her head in denial. He nodded as though he expected that, and smiled.

“You know. Am I so unpracticed then, that you knew it?” she asked.

He laughed. “Love isn't a matter of practice,” he said, as he drew nearer. “It simply is. Let me show you.”

His lips touched hers lightly. She was the one who sighed and stepped into his embrace. She was the one overwhelmed by the soft velvet of his lips, the warmth of his mouth, the thrilling sensations of his tongue touching hers. She was the one who burrowed closer to him, gripping his shoulders, rejoicing at the feeling of the lithe, strong frame pressed to her own. And when he lightly cupped her breast, she was the one who longed to drag off her ragged gown and press closer, skin to skin with him.

She realized what she was doing when she realized she wanted to do so much more than that. She stepped back. “Lord!” she marveled, touching her lips. “That's not fair.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was trying to think,” she complained.

He smiled. “Think then.”

“You made it more difficult,” she said slowly. “It's hard to recognize you. I kept thinking, who is this handsome fellow with such golden tresses?”

“You said you preferred blond men. But poor me. Dark as the inside of a cave. Do you want me to stay this way then? I can. All I need is some dye, and I can always be your fair gentleman. Or I can cast off the wig and be myself again. It's up to you. Or would you prefer that I nip off into the garden and reappear orange as a carrot, or red as a beet? Color is simple. Hearts and minds are not. What do you want, Eve?” he said more seriously. “I'll try to be that for you, but remember, I am myself, and I can't, I won't, change that. Not even for you.”