Masquerade (5 page)

“Happy New Year, Lady Atwell,” Sophie said.

Speaking from behind a creation made from ruffled black silk, corded ribbon and several ostrich feathers made her feel like someone else entirely. She could be any one of a million women, with whims, charms and ideas completely dissimilar to her own, and no one would be any the wiser as long as she kept her mask firmly in place.

Sophie loved the feeling, loved the freedom the artful piece of frippery afforded her.

Rachel echoed the salutation, and added, “It is quite a night for a dance, isn’t it?”

Lady Atwell giggled, whipping out a lace-edged fan and flapping it in front of her cheeks. The night was chilly, but the air was warm, the crush of bodies adding to the heat from the fireplaces. “Oh, my dear, you
do
have a point. It isn’t the best night for a party, but it is, unfortunately, the only night of the year when we can truly celebrate New Year’s so we shall have to make do. I’m elated to see more bodies than I thought to see. Earlier today I wondered if only Lord Atwell and I would be dancing tonight!”

“Wouldn’t that be dreadful? To throw the first party of the year and have every single guest kept away by the weather—oh, I am
so relieved
that didn’t happen.” Rachel followed the older woman’s lead, snapping open her fan and waving it vigorously before her cheeks.

Sophie hid a smile behind her own fan. Even though Rachel was out and open to finding a matrimonial match, she was still so young. She was not fully herself yet, and took so many cues from those around her.

I will have to be sure she does not fall into poor company
, Sophie thought. Any company not altogether correct might influence her younger sister inappropriately. It fell to her, as the older, unmarried sibling, to watch out for and prevent such unseemly events from taking place.

She smiled at their hostess. “It seems that you have invited only those who might appreciate such a lively invitation. Honestly, Lady Atwell, it looks like there are very few who have missed the festivities. Why, I cannot fathom who anyone is behind their mask, but I imagine by the number of people here that there cannot be many who did not make it.”

A hearty nod sent the feathers on the embroidered shawl about the hostess’s shoulders fluttering. The effect was enchanting, making the woman appear somewhat like a peacock. Sophie wondered which clever dressmaker had designed the gown and matching shawl. Not that it mattered, given her circumstances, but still—she wondered.

“You are right. We did a head count as people drifted in, and I’m pleased to say there are only a few who are either late or will not show up.” Lady Atwell wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging herself tightly and showing far more plumage—as she wore no fichu—than any peacock ever would have. She leaned close, shivering dramatically. “I do hope no one is trapped in this storm. It would be horrid to think one of our guests got into difficulty in this weather and is stuck somewhere between here and…wherever.” Once again, she hugged herself and shivered. The feathers on her shoulders looked like they might fly off at any moment.

“Let us hope that doesn’t happen,” Sophie said as she and Rachel moved toward the sound of music. “We will pray that everyone arrives safely.”

“From your lips to God’s ears,” Lady Atwell said with a last smile. She patted Rachel on the shoulder, and then did the same to Sophie. “We shall keep good thoughts, then, shan’t we? We’ll hope everyone who is coming will get here in one piece and, lest we forget, we’ll entertain promising thoughts for the upcoming months. After all, it is the New Year. And you know what they say, don’t you?”

The crowd pressed against her back but Sophie’s feet remained solid. Curiosity got the best of her, and she could not move until she asked, “What do they say, Lady Atwell?”

Their hostess giggled once more, and then with a joyful wave of her fan, she said, “Why, they say that anything is possible on New Year’s, my dear! Anything at all! For anyone! Anyone who has a wish—or two or three or maybe even four—on New Year’s Day can see their fondest desires come true. That, my dear, is what they say!”

****

The back of his throat felt like an overgrown tomcat had used it to sharpen his claws. His voice had a rasp that made him sound strange even to his own ears. And his head felt entirely too warm given the fact he had just spent nearly an hour in a cold carriage.

None of his physical complaints mattered. Colin was thrilled to have made it to Woodhaven in one piece. John had been as good as his word, and his first-rate coach and strong horses had brought them through the storm. There had been a few dicey moments but the driver held to their course without hesitation.

“Are you all right?” The driver queued up behind the other late arrivals. John leaned forward in the dark coach, his gaze darting across Colin’s features. “Why, you look sick as a cushion, man. What ails you?”

Despite the humming inside his head, Colin felt remarkably well. Euphoric, almost. He hadn’t expected to see his New Year’s plans to fruition, so bearing a slight case of the sniffles didn’t throw him one bit.

“I’m fine,” Colin said with a slight sniff. He ran a gloved finger across the bridge of his nose and said, “It is merely the start of a head cold, nothing more.”

John’s snort cut the silence. “Jolly bad way to begin the year, isn’t it?”

“Good or bad, what does it matter? If I have already come down with something—or the start of something—there is no help for it. There is nothing I can do, so why concern myself?”

Reaching into his heavy woolen greatcoat, John said, “Oh, but there is something you can do about it. My father declares this is the only way to ward off a cold, or any other illness.” With a flourish, he pulled a flask from an inside pocket. “This will set you to rights in no time. Probably be feeling good as new before we even make the front door, my man.”

Colin wasn’t prone to overindulgence with regard to anything. He prided himself on being a temperate man, one who had no need for artificial stimulation. While he realized others imbibed from time to time, it was not a habit he indulged in.

He’d thought many times of falling into a whiskey barrel and drinking his way to the bottom, but he’d never done it. If he could survive being spurned by the woman who held his heart, he would triumph over a pesky sniffle. Without libation.

Waving away the proffered flask, he said, “Thank you, but no. I don’t drink—or have you forgotten?”

The duke’s laughter filled the space between them. “I haven’t forgotten anything, Colin, about your penchant for doing what is right, seeing the good in everyone and every situation, and speaking only the truth in all situations. Believe me, it has not always been easy to be friends with someone who possesses no bad habits at all.”

“You make me sound like a choir boy,” Colin protested. He was no angel—far from it. Still, drinking did not suit his needs.

“That is an accurate description, I think.”

John uncapped the flask and held it out to him. Colin sniffed, and a mildly sweet aroma swept up his nostrils. It unstuffed them almost instantly, so he took a second, deeper, breath.

“I’m not a choir boy. I’m an ordinary man, one who may be…” He knew what he wanted to say, but the words disappeared like a vanishing mist. His head felt fuzzy, so he shook it to clear it.

“Too nice. That is your problem,” John said.

“I wasn’t aware I have a problem.”

“Damn you, Colin! I’ve insulted you, yet you persist in being polite. Doesn’t anything make you angry?”

Colin gave the question a moment’s consideration. He was, generally, an even-tempered person. Of course, there were injustices in the world, grievous wrongs one heard about but could do nothing to stop, which raised his ire. But in his own life, in the day-to-day issues he faced? The times when he found himself losing his temper he usually swallowed his spleen, took a deep breath, and looked for a silver lining in the situation. Getting one’s wits twisted did very little to solve anything. Losing one’s good humor only turned a situation on its head. It did not solve it, so why get angry?

“I cannot get annoyed with you,” Colin said with a low chuckle. “We are like brothers, and your poking fun at my morality doesn’t anger me. In fact, I am pleased to know you have noticed my habits. Dare I hope some might rub off on you, old chum?”

“Touché. Your point is well taken, but the crux of the matter remains.”

“The crux of what matter? You have lost me. My head is a bit stuffy.”

The rumble of the carriage’s wheels as they moved forward in the waiting line. “I could say it wasn’t difficult to lose you even in this small coach. I could say that—but I won’t. What I will point out is that you have not yet taken your medicine. Remember, I told you my father refuses to be cupped, will not abide leeches or any other modern medical tomfoolery. He will brook no disagreement on the topic; it is medicinal brandy that has cured his ills and brought him to the ripe old age of fifty-four. You must admit, he is quite healthy for someone so stricken in years.”

Colin mulled things over. John’s father was hearty and able-bodied despite his advanced age. And he had heard brandy would cure a head cold. It seemed obvious, given the dampness of the day and his morning soaking, that he was coming down with a cold. What harm could it do to take a swallow—just one, that was all—of something purely for medicinal purposes?

“Give it here.” Colin held his hand out. He sounded like he had swallowed sandpaper, his voice was so rough. There was a comfort. While his throat scratched a bit and his voice sounded harsh, it didn’t hurt to speak. “I’ll take your father’s advice and yours as well, if you will promise to stop calling me a choir boy.”

Laughing, John passed the flask and said, “You have yet another bargain. I wonder what more you will require of me before the year is out?”

The first swallow burned his throat and brought a sheen to his eyes. Colin hitched a deep breath, and then choked out, “I had better not get foxed by this remedy of yours, or you will be paying the piper his due for much longer than just one year! Good Lord, how does anyone drink this stuff?” Colin took a second, smaller, mouthful, hoping to chase the burn from his tongue.

“Practice. Years and years of practice…just ask my father.”

****

On the surface, country dancing looked slow, sedate, and entirely relaxing. The truth was that the steps were often intricate and complicated, requiring dance partners to make tight turns in order to keep themselves in proper position on the dance line. It could be a sweaty, tiring activity, but there wasn’t a woman in the room who would refuse a turn on the crowded dance floor. The adventure of mastering a myriad of difficult steps, coupled with the exertion required to maintain appropriate alignment with one’s partner made for an entirely exhilarating adventure.

Sophie was no different from anyone else. She had already danced one dance, and hoped to dance many more before the evening came to a close.

Although her last partner had been so short she could see the bald patch at the top of his head and his hands were clammy, she enjoyed the challenge of keeping up with the other couples. The music had been fairly lively and the steps corresponded with the tune, so when her masked partner returned her to where he had found her beside the punch bowl, she was more than happy to have a few moments rest.

Rachel scooted past the line of dancers waiting for a glass of punch, retrieving two cups with such a big smile and so quickly she did not raise a flap for having cut the line. It was her way to smooth tempers with a smile, and her expression was so sweet no one ever seemed to notice when she had her way.

“Here.” Rachel thrust one crystal punch glass at Sophie. The pink liquid came dangerously close to splashing over the side and onto Sophie’s hand, but her sister wasn’t looking. Her gaze raked the crowd. When she spoke again, it was out of the side of her mouth. “Do you see anyone who interests you? Anyone you might be inclined to encourage?”

The punch was overly sweet, but it quenched her thirst so she drained her glass. A passing maid, her tray only half-filled with empty glasses, accepted Sophie’s glass with a smile and a small bob.

“How on earth can I tell if anyone interests me? Honestly, Rachel, sometimes you are as silly as a goose.”

Still speaking out of the corner of her mouth in an attempt to camouflage the familiar nature of their conversation, Rachel said, “I cannot see how you can be so difficult to satisfy.”

“Pardon me?” She gave Rachel a quick poke in the shoulder. The exposed flesh was soft, the result, Sophie knew, of the homemade cream and chamomile moisturizing lotion that was smoothed onto the area every night at bedtime. “How can you say such things when you know they aren’t so? I am not at all difficult—about anything, let alone about men.”

With a snort that was neither ladylike nor for anyone’s ears save Sophie’s, Rachel whirled about. Her gown was a royal blue silk, and its skirt so luminous it appeared dazzling in the glow from the gaslights. When Rachel moved, the skirt seemed to take on a life of its own, and the dress looked like it was made of ocean water rather than ordinary fabric. There wouldn’t be many who could resist taking an appreciative glance at the skirt when the dancing began in earnest.

Sophie couldn’t complain or entertain jealousy toward her sister for the dress she wore. The fabric had come from one of their mother’s old gowns, and Rachel had spent countless hours fashioning the disjointed panels from the previous gown into this new, magical creation.

Sophie’s sewing skills didn’t extend nearly as far as Rachel’s. Her patience for laboring over tiny, intricate stitching was nearly nonexistent. Rachel truly deserved every appreciative look she garnered.

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

Rachel was still Rachel, even behind the feathers and lace that covered her face mask. She could conceal her face from the rest of the party, but her sister knew her well enough to see the astonishment in her eyes.